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D O L L Y : 

A LOVE SfORT. 


BY 


FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT, 

AUTHOR OF “that LASS O’ LOWRIE’s/’ ETC. 



PHILADELPHIA : 

PORTER & COATES, 

T ~ . 822 Chestnut Street. 



INTEENATIONAL SERIES OF NOVELS. 


Each large 12/no., printed on fine paper, in large, clear type, and bound in 
light lead-colored, smooth English cloth, icith ornamental black stampings. \ 



1. In the Days of My Youth. 

By Amelia B. Edwards. 

2. Charlotte Ackerman. 

By Otto Muller. 

3. The Cross of Berny. ^ 

By Mmk. De Girardin, Mm. Ga^iwr^^ 








Sandeau, and Mery. 

4. The eon of the Organ Grinder. 

By Marie Sophie Schwartz, 

5. No Alternative. 

By Annie Thomas. 

6. Gerda. 

By Marie Sophie Schwartz. 

7. The Vicissitudes of Bessie Fairfax. 

By Holme Lee. 

8. Valentine, the Countess. 

By Carl Detlef. 

9. Chaste as Ice, Pure as Snow. 

By Mrs. M. C. Despa rd. 

10. Gentianella. 

By Mr.'S. Randolph. 

11. Katerfelto. A story of Exmoor. 

By G. J. Whyte- Melville. 

12. Oldbury. 

By Annie Keary. 

13. At Capri. A story of Italian life. 

By Carl Detlef. 

14. Afraja; or. Life and Love in Norway. 

By Theodore Mugge, 

15. Castle Daly. 

By Annie Keary. 

16. A Marriage in High Life. 

By Octave Feuillet. 

17. On Dangerous Ground. . ' 

By Mr.s. Bloomfield Moore. 

18. An Odd Couple. 

By Mrs. Oliphant. 

19. The Prime Minister. 

By Anthony Trollope. 

20. Until the Day Break. 

By Mrs. J, M. D. Bartlett. 

21. Doliy. 

By THE Author of “That Lass o’ Lowrie’s.’' 


Copykight; Dj£acon & Peterson, 1873; Porter & Coates, 1877. 


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CONTENTS. 


chapter I. Page 

In which we hold Counsel ..... 7 

CHAPTER II. 

In the Camps of the Philistines . . . . .29 

CHAPTER III. 

In which the Train is Laid . . . . . 49 

CHAPTER IV. 

A Lily of the Field . . . . . . • 7 1 

CHAPTER V. 

In which the Philistines be upon us . . . 90 

CHAPTER VI. . 

Wanted, a Yotmg Person 109 


CHAPTER VII. 

In which a Spark is Applied . . . . 125 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The Beginning of the Ending . . . . .141 

CHAPTER IX. 

hi which we are Unorthodox 158 


(v) 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


Page 


CHAPTER X. 

In Slippery Places 

CHAPTER XI. 

In which comes a Wmd which blows Nobody Good 185 

CHAPTER XII. 

In which there is an Explosion . . . , . . 202 

CHAPTER XIII. 

A Dead Letter . ..... 232 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Seven Long Years, Beloved ..... 247 

CHAPTER XV. 

In which we try Switzerlajid . . . .261 

CHAPTER XVI. 

If you should Die . . . . . . .275 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Do you knoiv that she is Dying? . . . .288 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Grif! 300 

CHAPTER XIX. 


Rose Color 


309 


DOLLY 


CHAPTER I. 

IN WHICH WE HOLD COUNSEL. 

I T was a queer, nondescript sort of a room, taking it 
altogether. A big, sunny room, whose once hand- 
some papering and corniceing had grown dingy and 
questionable, and whose rich carpeting had lost its color 
and pile in places, and yet asserted its superiority to its 
surroundings with an air of lost grandeur in every huge, 
shabby medallion. There were pictures in abundance 
on the walls, and more than one of them were gems in 
their way, despite the ample evidence all bore to being 
the work of amateurs. The tables were carved elabo- 
rately, and the faded, brocaded chairs were of the order 
pouf, and as inviting as they were disreputable in appear- 
ance; there was manuscript music among the general 
litter, a guitar hung from the wall by a tarnished blue 
and silver ribbon, and a violin lay on the piano, and yet, 
notwithstanding the air of free and easy disorder, one 
could hardly help recognising a sort of vagabond com- 
fort and luxury in the Bohemian surroundings. It was 
so very evident that the owners must enjoy life in an easy, 

(vii) 


8 


DOLLY. 


light-hearted, though, perhaps, light-headed fashion; and 
it was also so very evident that their light hearts and 
light heads rose a.bove their knowledge of their light 
purses. 

They were congregated together now,*holding a grand 
family council around the centre-table, and Dolly was 
the principal feature, as usual; and embarrassing as 
the subject of said council was, not one of them looked 
as if it was other than a most excellent joke that Dolly, 
having been invited into the camps of the Philistines, 
should find she had nothing to put on to grace the occa- 
sion. And as to Dolly — well, that young person stood 
in the midst of them in her shabby, Frenchy little hat, 
slapping one pink palm with a shabby, shapely, little kid 
glove, her eyes alight, her comical dismay and amuse- 
ment displaying itself even in the very arch of her brows. 

“ And so the Philistine leader pounced upon me her- 
self,” she was saying. “ You know the ‘ Ark,’ Phil ? 
Well, they were all in the Ark — the Rev. Bilberry in 
front, and the* boys and girls filling up the corners ; so 
you may imagine the effect produced when they stopped, 
and Lady Augusta bent over the side to solemnly pro- 
claim her intention of inviting me to partake of coffee 
and conversation on Friday night, with an air of severely 
wondering whether I would dare to say ' No !’ ” 

'‘Why didn’t you say it?” said Aimde. “You know 
it will be an awful bore, Dolly. Those Bilberry clan 
gatherings always are. You have said so yourself often 
enough.” 

“ Of course I have,” returned Dolly. “ And, of course 
it will be, but it would be dreadfully indiscreet to let the 
Bilberry element know I thought so. The Bilberry doors 
once closed against us, where is our respectability, and 


m WHICH WE HOLD COUNSEL. 


9 


Phil’s chance of success among the Philistines ? It is 
bad enough, of course, but there is reason to be thankful 
that I am the only victim. The rest of you would be 
sure to blunder into the B. B. B.’s (meaning the Bilberry 
black books), and that would be an agreeable state of 
affairs. ’Toinette, look at Tod, he is sitting in the coal- 
box eating Phil’s fusees.” 

In ’Toinette we find Mrs. Phil, a handsome creature, 
young enough to have been in the school-room, but with 
the face and figure of a Greek goddess and a pair of 
eyd^, lovely enough to haunt one’s dreams as a memory 
for a lifetime, and as to the rest an inconsistent, glorious, 
young madcap, whose beauty and spirit seemed only a 
necessary part of the household arrangements, and 
whose son and heir, in the person of the enterprising 
Tod (an abbreviate of Theodore), was the source of unlim- 
ited domestic enjoyment and the object of much indis- 
creet adoration. It was just like Philip Crewe, this mar- 
rying on probabilities, and it was equally like the rest of 
them to accept the state of affairs as an excellent joke, 
and regard the result as an exquisite piece of pleasantry. 
’Toinette herself was only another careless, whimsical, 
unworldly addition to the family circle, and enjoyed her 
position as thoroughly as the rest did; and as to Tod, 
what a delicate satire upon responsibilities Tod was, and 
how tranquilly he comported himself under a regime 
which admitted of free access into dangerous places, and 
a lack of personal restraint which allowed him all the 
joys the infantile mind can revel in. 

At Dolly’s exclamation ’Toinette rushed at him in his 
stronghold, and extricated him from the coal-box with 
demonstrations of dismay. 

Look at his white dress!” she wailed pathetically. 


10 


DOLLY. 


“ I only put it on a few minutes ago ; and he has eaten 
two dozen fusees, if this wasn’t an empty box when he 
found it. I hope they won’t disagree with him, Phil.” 

“ They won’t,” said Phil, composedly. “ Nothing does. 
Dust him, and proceed to business. I want to hear the 
rest of Dolly’s story.” 

“ I thmkl' said Mollie, “ that he ate Shem and Ham 
this morning, for I could only find Japheth after he had 
been playing with his Noah’s Ark. Go on, Dolly.” 

“Wait until I have taken off my things,” said Dolly, 
“ and then we’ll talk it over. We must talk it over, you 
know, if I am to go.” 

She took off her hat — a pretty, Frenchy hat — with an 
air, despite its shabbiness, as I have said, and then she 
laid her shawl aside — a little scarlet shawl, draped about 
her figure and tossed over one shoulder smartly, and by 
no means ungracefully — and so stood revealed; and it 
must be admitted she was well worth looking at. Not a 
beauty, but a fresh, wholesome little body, with a real 
complexion, a wondrous abundance of hair, and large 
irised, wide-awake eyes, changeable as to color, because 
capricious iii expression; the sort of girl, in fact, who 
would be likely to persuade people ultimately that, con- 
sidering circumstances, absolute beauty could be easily 
dispensed with, and, upon the whole, would rather de- 
tract from the general charm of novelty, which, in her 
case, reigned supreme. And it must be confessed that 
Dolly herself had a theory on this subject. 

“ It isn’t the mere fact of being a beauty that makes 
women popular,” she would say; “ it’s the being able to 
persuade people that you are one — or better than one. 
Don’t some historians tell us that Cleopatra had red 
hair and questionable eyes, and yet she managed to blind 


i 


m WHICH WE HOLD COUNSEL. 


11 


the world so completely, that no one is sure whether it 
is true or not, and to this day the generality of people 
are inclined to believe that it was her supernatural beauty 
that dragged Marc Antony to the dust at her feet.” 

Aim^e’s face was twice as perfect as Dolly’s ; Mollie’s 
was far more imposing, child as she was ; ’Toinette threw 
her far into the shade in the matter of statuesque splen- 
dor; but still it was Dolly who did all the impossible 
things, and had divers tragic adventures with question- 
able adorers, whose name was legion, and who were a 
continual source of rejoicing and entertainment to the 
family. 

Having tossed hat and shawl on to the table, among 
the manuscript music, paint-brushes, and palettes, this 
young person slipped into the most comfortable chair 
near the fire, and having waited for the rest to seat them- 
selves proceeded to open the council. Mollie, who was 
sixteen, large, fair, beautiful, and not as tidy as she might 
have been, dropped into a not ungraceful position at her 
feet. Aim^e, who was a little maiden with a tender, spir~ 
ituelle face, and all the forethought* of the family, sat 
near, with some grave perplexity in her expression. 
’Toinette and Tod posed in the low nursery-chair — the 
girl’s firm, white arm flung around the child — swung 
lightly to and fro, fit models for an artist, incongruous 
as their surroundings were. 

“You would make a first-class picture — the lot of 
you,” commented Phil, amicably. 

“Never mind the picture,” said Mollie, drawing her 
disreputable slippers up under her voluminous wrapper. 
“ We want to hear how Dolly thinks of going to the Bil- 
berrys. Oh, Dolly, how heavenly it would be if you 
had a turquoise-blue sat -” 


12 


DOLLY. 


^‘Heavenly!” interrupted Dolly. should think it 
would. Particularly celestial for Lady^ Augusta, who 
looks mahogany-colored in it, and peculiarly celestial 
for a poor relation from Vagabondia. It would be as 
much as my reputation was worth. She would never 
forgive me. You must learn discretion, Mollie.” 

“ There is some consolation in knowing you can’t get 
it,” said ’Toinette. “You won’t be obliged to deny 
yourself or be indiscreet. But what are you going to 
wear, Dolly?” 

“ That is for the council to decide,” Dolly returned, 
comfortably. “ First, we must settle on what we want, 
and then we must settle on the way to get it.” 

“ Other people go the other way about it,” said Aimde. 

“ If we were only rich !” said Mollie. 

“But it is a most glaringly patent fact that we are 
not,” returned Dolly, concisely. “There is one thing 
certain, however — it must be white.” 

“ A simple white muslin,” suggested ’Toinette, strug- 
gling in the grasp of the immortal Tod; “ a simple white 
muslin, with an equally simple wild flower in your hair, 
a la Amanda Fitzallan. How the Dowager Bilberry 
would like that.” 

“And a wide blue sash,” suggested Mollie. ''And 
the sleeves tied up with bows. And tucks, Dolly. Girls, 
just think of Dolly making great eyes at an eligible 
Philistine in white muslin and a sash and tucks !” 

She was a hardened little sinner, this Dolly, her only 
redeeming point being that she was honest enough about 
her iniquities — so honest that they were really not such 
terrible iniquities after all, and were regarded as rather 
good fun by the habitues of Vagabondia proper. She 
laughed just as heartily as the rest of them at Mollie’s 


IN WHICH WE HOLD COUNSEL, 


13 


speech. She could no more resist the temptation of 
making great eyes at eligible Philistines than she could 
help making them at the entertaining but highly ineligi- 
ble Bohemians, who continually frequented Phil’s studio. 
The fact of the matter was that the fear of man was not 
before her eyes, and the queer, nondescript life she had 
led had invested her with a whimsical yet shrewd know- 
ledge of human nature and a business-like habit of look- 
ing matters in the face, which made her something of a 
novelty, and when is not novelty irresistible ? And as 
to the masculine Philistines — well, the audacity of Dolly’s 
successes in the very midst of the enemy’s camp had been 
the cause of much stately demoralization of Philistine bat- 
talions. 

At her quietest she created small sensations and at- 
tracted attention ; but in her wicked moods, when she 
was in a state of mind sufficiently questionable to prompt 
her to revenge the numerous small slights and overt acts 
of lofty patronage she met with, the dowagers stood in 
^ome secret awe of her propensities, and not without rea- 
son. Woe betide the daring matron who measured swords 
with her at such times. Great would be her confusion 
and dire her fall before the skirmish was over, and noth- 
ing was more certain than that she would retire from the 
field a wiser if not a better woman. After being trium- 
phantly routed with great slaughter on two or three oc- 
casions, the enemy had discovered this, and. decided 
mentally that it was more discreet to let “ little Miss 
Crewe” alone, considering that, though it was humiliat- 
ing to be routed, even by one of their own forces, it was 
infinitely more so to be routed by an innocent-looking 
young person, whose position was questionable and who 
actually owed her vague shadow of respectability to her 


14 


DOLLY. 


distant but august relative the Lady Augusta Decima 
Crewe Bilberry, wife of the Rev. Marmaduke Sholto Bil- 
berry, and mother of the plenteous crop of young Bil- 
berrys, to whom little Miss Crewe was music teacher and 
morning governess. 

So it was that Mollie’s joke about the tucks and white 
muslin gained additional point from the family recollec- 
tions of past experiences. 

But,” said Dolly, when the laugh had subsided, “ it 
won’t do to talk nonsense all day. Here’s where we 
stand, you know. Coffee and conversation on Friday 
night on one side and nothing but my draggled, old 
green tarlatan on the other, and it’s Tuesday now.” 

“ And the family impecuniosity being a fact well esta- 
blished in the family mind,” began Phil, with composure. 

“But that’s nonsense,” interrupted Aimde. “And, as 
Dolly says, nonsense won’t do now. But the fact is,” 
with a quaint sigh, “we always do talk nonsense.” 

But here a slight diversion was created. Mrs. Phil 
jumped up, with an exclamation of delight, and dropping 
Tod on to Mollie’s lap, disappeared through the open 
door. 

“ I will be back in a minute,” she called back to them, 
as she ran up-stairs. “ I have just thought of something.” 

“ Girls,” said Mollie, “ it’s her white merino.” 

And so it was. In a few minutes she reappeared with 
it — a heap of soft, white folds in her arms and a yard or 
so of the train dragging after her upon the carpet — the one 
presentable relic of a once inconsistently elaborate bridal 
trousseau, at present in a rather tumbled and rolled up 
condition, but still white and soft and thick and open to 
unlimited improvement. 

“ I had forgotten all about it,” she .said, triumphantly. 


IN WHICH WE HOLD COUNSEL. 


15 


“ I have never needed it at all, and I knew I never should 
when I bought it, but it looked so nice when I saw it 
that I couldn’t help buying it. I once thought of cutting 
it up into things for Tod, but it seems to me, Dolly, it’s 
what you want exactly, and Tod can trust to Providence 
— things always come somehow.” 

It was quite characteristic of the peculiarities of the 
counsel that there should be more rejoicing over this 
one stray sheep of good luck than there would have 
been over any ninety and nine in the ordinary folds of 
more prosperous people. And Mrs. Phil rejoiced as 
heartily as the rest. It was her turn now and she was 
as ready to sacrifice her white merino on the shrine of 
the household fetich of impecuniosity as she would be 
to borrow Dolly’s best bonnet or Mollie’s shoes, or 
Aimee’s gloves, when occasion demanded such a course. 
So the merino was laid upon the table and the counsel 
rose to examine and comment and suggest. 

A train,” said Dolly, concisely, no trimming, and 
swan’s-down. Even the Bilberry couldn’t complain of 
that. I’m sure.” 

Mollie, resting her smooth white elbows on the table 
in a comfortably lounging posture, regarded the gar- 
ment with great longing in her lovely, drowsy, brown 
eyes. 

“ I wish it was white satin,” she observed, somewhat 
irrelevantly, “ and I was going to wear it at a real ball, 
with real lace, you know, and a court train, and flowers, 
and a fan.” 

Dolly looked down at her odd, handsome, childish 
face good-naturedly. She was such an incongruous 
mixture of beauty and utter simplicity, this large, fair, 
easy-going baby of sixteen, that Dolly could not have 


16 


DOLLY. 


helped liking her heartily under any circumstances, 
even supposing there had been no tie of relationship be- 
tween them. 

“ I wish it was white satin and you were going to wear 
it,” she said. “White satin is just the sort of thing for 
you, Mollie. Never mind, wait until the figurative ship 
comes in.” 

“And in the interval,” suggested Aimee, “put a stitch 
or so in that wrapper of yours. It has been torn for a 
week now, and Tod invariably tumbles over it half a 
dozen times every morning before breakfast.” 

Mollie cast her eyes over her shoulder to give it an in- 
different glance as it rested on the faded carpet behind 
her, a disreputable enough trail of frayed-out material. 

“ I wish Lady Augusta would mend things before she 
sends them to us,” she said, with sublime naivete, and 
then at the burst of laughter which greeted her words, 
she stopped short, staring at the highly-entertained circle 
with widely-opened, innocent eyes. “ What are you laugh- 
ing at?” she said. “I’m sure she might. She is always 
preaching about liking to have something to occupy her 
time, and I’m sure it would be far more charitable of her 
to spend her time in that way than in persistently going 
into poor houses where the people don’t want her, and 
reading tracts to them that they don’t want to hear.” 

Dolly’s intense appreciation of the audacity of the idea 
reached a climax in an actual little shriek of delight. 

“ If I had five pounds, which I have not, and never 
shall have,” she said, “ I would freely give it just to see 
Lady Augusta hear you say that, my dear. Five pounds ! 
I would give ten — twenty — fifty, if need be. It would 
be such an exquisite joke.” 

But Mollie did not regard the matter in this light. To 


IN WHICH WE HOLD COUNSEL. 


17 


her unsophisticated mind Lady Augusta represented 
nothing more than periodical boredom in the shape of 
occasional calls, usually made unexpectedly, when the 
house was at its worst, and nobody was especially tidy 
— calls invariably enlivened by severe comments upon 
the evil propensities of poor relations in general, and the 
shocking lack of respectability in this branch of the order 
in particular. Worldy wisdom was not a family trait, 
Dolly’s half-whimsical assumption of it being the only 
symptom of the existence of such a gift, and Mollie was 
the most sublimely thoughtless of the lot. Mrs. Phil had 
never been guilty of a discreet act in her life. Phil him- 
self regarded consequences less than he regarded any- 
thing else, and Aim^e’s childish staidness and fore- 
thought had certainly not an atom of worldliness in it. 
Accordingly, Dolly was left to battle with society, and 
now and then, it must be admitted, the result of her 
brisk affrays did her no small credit. 

P"or a very short space of time the merino was being 
disposed of to an advantage ; Dolly seating herself in 
her shabby padded chair again to renovate the skirt ; 
Aimde unpicking the bodice, and Mollie looking on with 
occasional comments. 

‘‘ Here is Griffith,” she said, at last, glancing over her 
shoulder at a figure passing the window, and the next 
minute the door was opened without ceremony, and 
“Jack” made his appearance upon the scene. 

Being called upon to describe Griffith Donne, one 
would hardly feel inclined to describe him as being im- 
posing in personal appearance. He was a thin, under- 
sized young man, rather out at elbows and shabby of 
attire, and with a decided air of Bohemia about him, but 

his youthful face was a singularly pleasing and innocent 
. o 


18 


DOLLY. 


one, and his long-lashed, brown-black eyes were more 
than good-looking — they were absolutely beautiful in a 
soft, guileless, pathetic way — beautiful as the eyes of the 
loveliest of women. 

He came into the room as if he was used to coming 
into it in an everyday fashion, and Dolly looking up, 
gave him a smile and a nod. 

“Ah, you are all here, are you?” he said. “What is 
on hand now? What is all this white stuff for?” and he 
drew a chair up close by Dolly’s side, and lifted the 
merino in his hand. 

“ For Friday night,” answered Aimee. “ Bilberry’s 
again, Griffith. Coffee and conversation this time.” 

Griffith looked at Dolly inquiringly, but Dolly only 
laughed and shrugged her plump .shoulders wickedly. 

“Look here,” he said, with a disapproving air, “it ain’t 
true, is it, Dolly? You are not going to make a burnt- 
offering of yourself on the Bilberry shrine again, are 
you ?” , . 

But Dolly only laughed the more as she took the 
merino from him. 

“ If you want a breadth of merino to hold, take 
another one,” she said. “ I want that. And as to being 
a burnt-offiering on the shrine of Bilberry, my dear Grif- 
fith, you must know it is policy,” and immediately went 
on with her unpicking again, while Griffith, bending 
over in an attitude more remarkable for ease than grace, 
looked on at her sharp little glancing scissors with an 
appearance of great interest. 

It would perhaps be as well to pause here to account 
for this young man’s evident freedom in the family cir- 
cle. It was very plain that he was accustomed to com- 
ing and going when he pleased, and it was easily to be 


IN WHICH WE HOLD COUNSEL. 19 

adduced from his manner that, to him, Dolly was the 
chief attraction in the establishment. And so she was. 
The fact was, he was engaged to Dolly, and had been 
engaged to her for years, and in all probability, unless 
his prospects altered their aspect, would be engaged to 
her for years to come. In past time, when both were 
absurdly young, and ought to have been at school, the 
two had met — an impressionable, good-natured, well- 
disposed couple of children, who fell in love with each 
other unreasoningly and honestly, giving no thought to 
the future. They were too young to be married, of 
course, and indeed had not troubled themselves about 
anything so matter of fact ; they had fallen in love, and 
enjoyed it, and, strange to say, had been enjoying it 
ever since, and falling in love more deeply every day 
of their affectionate, inconsequent, free-and-easy lives. 
What did it matter to thern that neither owned a solitary 
sixpence, for which they had not a thousand uses ? 
What did it matter to Dolly that Griffith’s literary career 
had so far been so unremunerative that a new suit is as 
an event, and an extra shilling an era? What did it mat- 
ter to Griffith that Dolly’s dresses were retrimmed and 
returned and refurbished, until their reappearance with 
the various seasons was the opening of a High Carnival 
of jokes ? Love is not a matter of bread and butter in 
Vagabondia, thank Heaven ! Love is left to Bohemia as 
well as to barren Respectability, and, as Griffith fre- 
quently observed with no slight enthusiasm, “When it 
comes to figure, where’s the feminine Philistine whose 
silks and satins arid purple and fine raiment fit like 
Dolly’s do ?” So it went on, and the two adored each 
other with mutual simplicity, and having their little 
quarrels, always made them up again with much affec- 


20 


DOLLY. 


tionate remorse, and scorning the prudential advice of 
outsiders, believed in each other and the better day 
which was to come, when one or the other gained 
worldly goods enough to admit of a marriage in which 
they were to be happy in their own way — which, I may 
add, was a way simple and tender, unselfish and faithful 
enough. 

It was quite evident, however, that Griffith was not in 
the best of spirits this morning. He was not as san- 
guine as Dolly by nature, and outward influences tended 
rather to depress him occasionally. But he never was so 
low-spirited that Dolly could not cheer him, consequently 
he always came to her with his troubles, and to her 
credit, be it said, she never failed to understand and deal 
with them tenderly, commonplace though they were. 
So she understood his mood very well to-day. Some- 
thing had gone wrong at “ the office.” (“ The office ” 
was the editorial den which swallowed him up, and held 
him in bondage from morning until night, appropriating 
his labor for a very small pecuniary compensation, too, it 
may be added.) “ Old Flynn,” as the principal was 
respectfully designated, had been creating one of his 
periodical disturbances, or he had been snubbed, which, 
by the way, was not a rare event, and to poor Griffith 
slights were stings and patronage poison. He could not 
laugh at the enemy and scorn discomfiture as Dolly could, 
and the consequence of an encounter with the Philistines 
on his part was usually a desperate fit of low spirits, 
which made him wretched, bitter and gloomy by turns. 

This morning it appeared that his spirits had reached 
their lowest ebb, an'd, before many minutes had passed he 
was pouring forth his tribulations with much frankness 
and simplicity. The fact was that Mr. Griffith Donne’s 


m WHICH WE HOLD COUNSEL. 


21 


principal trial was the existence of an elderly maiden 
aunt, who did not approve of him, and was in the habit 
of expressing her disapproval in lengthy epistolary cor- 
respondence, invariably tending to severe denunciation 
of his mode of life, and also invariably terminating with 
the announcement that un^less he “desisted” — (from 
what, or in what manner, not specified) — she should con- 
sider it her bounden duty to disinherit him forthwith. 
One of these periodical epistles having arrived before he 
had breakfasted, had rather destroyed Griffith’s custom- 
ary equanimity, and various events of the morning had 
not improved his frame of mind, consequently he came 
to Dolly for comfort. 

“And she’s coming to London, too,” he ended, after 
favoring the assemblage with extracts from the letter. 
“And, of course, she will expect me to do the dutiful. 
Confound her money ! I wish she would build an 
asylum for irate, elderly spinsters with it, and retire 
into it for the remainder of her natural life. I don’t 
want it, and,” with praiseworthy ingenuousness, “ I 
shouldn’t get it if I did !” 

“ But,” said Dolly, when they found themselves alone 
for a few minutes, “ it would be an agreeable sort of 
thing to have, Griffith, upon the whole, wouldn’t it ?” 

They were standing close together by the fire, Grffiith 
with his arm thrown round the girl’s waist, and she with 
both her plump, flexible hands clasped on his shoulder 
and her bewitching chin resting on them, and her big, 
round, lovely eyes gazing up into his. She was prone to 
affectionate, pretty, nestling attitudes and coaxing ways 
— with Griffith it may be understood — her other adorers 
were treated cavalierly enough. 

“A nice sort of thing,” echoed Griffith. “ I should 


22 


DOLLY. 


think it would. I should like to have it for your sake. 
I don’t care for it so much for myself, you know, Dolly, 
but I want the time to come when I can buy you such 
things as old Flynn’s nieces wear. It wouldn’t be a 
waste of good material on such a figure as yours. I 
have an idea of my own about a winter dress I intend 
you to have when we are rich — a dark blue velvet, and a 
hat with a white plume in and one of those muff affairs 
made of long, white, silky fur ” 

“Angora,” .said Dolly, her artless enjoyment of the 
idea shining in her eyes. “Angora, Griffith.” 

“ I don’t know what it’s called,” answered Griffith, 
“ but it is exactly your style, and I have thought about 
it a dozen times. Ah, if we were only rich !” 

Dolly laughed joyously, clasping her hands a little 
closer over his shoulder. Their conversations upon 
prospects generally ended in some such pleasantly erratic 
remarks. They never were tired of supposing that they 
were rich ; and really, in default of being rich, it must 
be admitted that there is some consolation in being in a 
frame of mind which can derive happiness from day- 
dreams, and such innocent day-dreams. 

“Just think of the house we would have,” she said, 
“and the fun we could all have together, if you and I 
were rich, and — and married, Griffith. We should be 
happy if we were married, and not rich, but if we were 
rich, and married — goodness, Griffith !” and she opened 
her eyes wide and looked so enjoyable altogether, that 
Griffith, being entirely overcome by reason of the 
strength of his feelings upon the subject, caught her in 
both arms and embraced her heartily, and only released 
her in an extremely but charmingly crushed and dis- 


m WHICH WE HOLD COUNSEL. 23 

bevelled condition, after he had kissed her about half a 
dozen times. 

It did not appear, upon the whole, that she objected to 
the proceeding. She took it quite naturally and unaffect- 
edly, as if she was used to it, and regarded it as a part 
of the programme. Indeed, it was quite a refreshing 
sight to see her put botli her wee little hands up to her 
disarranged hair and settle the crimps serenely. 

“We should have the chances to find true people if we 
were rich,” she said. “And then we could take care of 
Aimde and Mollie, and help them to make grand mar- 
riages.” 

But that very instant Griffith’s face fell somewhat. 

“ Dolly,” he said, “ have you never thought — not even 
thought that you would like to have made a grand mar- 
riage yourself? ” And though there was not the least 
shade of a reason for the change in his mood, it was 
glaringly evident that he was at once rendered absolutely 
prostrate with misery at the thought. 

The fact of the matter was, that sudden pangs of 
remorse at his own selfishness in holding the girl bound 
to him, were his weakness, and Dolly’s great difficulty 
was to pilot him safely through his shoals of doubt and 
self-reproach, and she had her own way of managing it. 
Just now her way of managing it was to confront him 
bravely, coming quite close to him again, and taking hold 
of one of his coat buttons. 

“I have thought of it a hundred times,” she said, “but 
not since I have belonged to you, and as I have belonged 
to you ever since I was fifteen years old, I should think 
what I thought before then can hardly have the right to 
trouble us now. You never think of marrying any one 
but me, do you, Griffith ?” 


24 


DOLLY. 


“Think of marrying anyone else!” exclaimed Grif- 
fith, indignantly. “I wouldn’t marry a female Rajah 
with a diamond ” 

“ I know you wouldn’t,” Dolly interrupted. “ I be- 
lieve in you, Griffith. Why won’t you believe in me ?” 
And the eyes lifted to his were so perfectly honest and 
straightforward that the sourest of cynics must have 
believed them, and Griffith was neither sour nor a cynic, 
but simply an unsiiccessful, affectionate, contradictory 
young man, too susceptible to outward influences for 
his own peace of mind. 

He was a very unfortunate young man, it may as well 
be observed at once, and his misfortunes were all the 
harder to bear because he W'as not to blame for them. 
He had talent, and was industrious and indefatigable, 
and yet somehow or other, the Fates seemed to be 
against him. If he had been less honest, or less willing, 
he might perhaps have been more successful ; but the 
truth was, that in his intercourse with the world’s slip- 
pery ones he customarily found himself imposed upon. 
During his business career he had found himself imposed 
upon, not as an exception, but as a rule. • He had done 
hard work, for which he had never been paid, and work 
for which he had been paid badly ; he had fought hon- 
estly to gain footing, and somehow or other, luck had 
seemed to be against him, for certainly he had not gained 
it yet. Honest men admired and respected him, and 
men of intellectual worth prophesied better days; but 
so far it had really seemed that the people who were 
willing to befriend him were powerless, and those who 
were powerful cared little about the matter. So be alter- 
nately struggled and despaired, and yet retained his good 
nature, and, it must be confessed, occasionally enjoyed 


IN WHICH WE HOLD COUNSEL. 


25 


life heartily in defiance of circumstances. With every 
member of the Crewe household he was popular, from 
Tod to Mrs. Phil. His engagement to Dolly they re- 
garded as a satisfactory arrangement. That he was 
barely able to support himself, and scarely possessed a 
presentable suit of clothes, was to their minds the most 
inconsequent of trifles.' It was unfortunate, perhaps, 
but unavoidable, and their sublime* trust in the luck 
which was to ripen in all of them at some indefinitely- 
described future time, was their hope in this case. Some 
time or other he would “ get into something,” they had 
decided, and then he v/ould marry Dolly, and they would 
all enjoy the attendant festivities. And in the meantime 
they allowed the two to be happy, and made Griffith 
welcome, inviting him to their little impromptu warm 
suppers, and fraternizing with him, and taking care never 
to be de trop on the occasion of ttte-oL-ttte .conversations. 

The tete-di-tete of the morning ended happily enough, 
as usual. Dolly went back to her unpicking, and Grif- 
fith, finding his ghost of self-reproach laid for the time 
being, watched her in a supremely blissful state of mind. 
It was an agreeable thing to watch her, by the way; 
Griffith never tired of watching her, he frequently told 
her in enthusiastic confidence. The peculiarity of charm 
in Dolly Crewe was her adaptability ; she was never out 
of place ; and in fact it had been said that she suited her- 
self to her accompaniments far oftener than her accom- 
paniments suited themselves to her. Seeing her in a 
shabby dress, seated on one of the shabby-padded chairs 
in the shabby parlor, one instinctively felt that shabbi- 
ness was not so utterly unbearable after all, and acknow- 
ledged that it had a brightness of its own. Meeting her 
at a clan gathering in the camps of the Philistines, one 


26 


DOLLY. 


always found her in excellent spirits, and quite undamped 
in her enjoyment of the frequently ponderous rejoicings. 
In the Bilberry school-room, among dog-eared French 
grammars and lead^pencilled musig,. education did not 
appear actually dispiriting ; and now, as she sat by the 
fire, with the bright, glancing, sharp little scissors in her 
hand, and the pile of white merino on her knees', and 
trailing on the hearth-rug at her feet, Griffith found her 
simply irresistible. Ah! the bliss that revealed itself in 
the prospect of making her Mrs.- Donne, and taking pos- 
session of her entirely! The joy of seeing her seated 
in an arm chair of his own, by a fire which was solely 
his property, in a room which was nobody else’s. para- 
dise ! He could imagine so well how she would regard 
such a state of affairs as a nice little joke, and would 
pretend to adapt herself to her position with divers dar- 
ing witcheries practised upon himself to the dethroning 
of his reason; how she would make innocent, wicked 
speeches, and be coaxing, and dazzling, and mock-ma- 
tronly by turns; and above all how she would enjoy it, 
and make him enjoy it, too ; and yet sometimes, when 
they were quiet and alone, would drop all her whimsical 
little airs and graces, and make such tender, unselfish, 
poetic little speeches, that he would find himself startled 
in his wonder at the depth, and warmth, and generosity 
of her girlish heart. He often found her surprising him 
after this manner, and the surprise usually came when 
he had just been most nearly betrayed into thinking of 
her as an adorable little collection of witcheries and 
whimsicalities, and forgetting that she had other moods. 
More than once she had absolutely brought tears into 
his eyes, and a curious thrill to his heart, by some sud- 
den,’ pathetic, trustful speech, made after she had been 


IN WHICB WE HOLD COUNSEL. 


27 


dazzling and bewildering for hours with her pretty co- 
quetries and daring flashes of wit. No one on earth but 
Griffith ever saw her in exactly these intense moods. 
The rest of them saw her intense enough sometimes, 
but the sudden, uncontrollable flashes of light Griffith 
saw now and then, fairly staggered him. And the poor 
fellow’s love for her was something akin to adoration. 
There was only this one woman upon earth to him, and 
his whole soul was bound up in her. It was for her he 
struggled against disappointrnent, it was for her he 
hoped, it was only the desperate strength of his love for 
her that made disappointment so terribly bitter to him. 
Certainly his love made him better and sweeter-tempered 
and more energetic than he would have been if his life 
had not been so full of it. His one ambition was to 
gain success to lay at her feet. To him success meant 
Dolly, and Dolly meant Paradise, an honest Paradise, in 
which primeval bliss reigned supreme and trial was un- 
known. Consequently the bright, little scissors glanced 
before his eyes a sort of lodestar. 

“ I didn’t tell you that nephew of old Flynn’s had 
come back, did I ?” he said, at length. 

“No,” answered Dolly, snipping diligently. “You 
never mentioned him. What nephew, and where did he 
come from ?” 

“ A fellow of the name of Gowan, who has been tra- 
velling in the East for no particular reason for the last 
ten years. He called on Flynn, at the office, to-day, for 
the first time, and if I had been called upon to kick him 
out, I should have regarded it as a cheerful and improv- 
ing recreation.” 

“ Why ?” laughed Dolly. “ Is he one of the Philis- 
tines ?” 


28 


DOLLY. 


“ Philistine !” echoed Griffith, with disgust. “ I should 
think so. A complacent idiot in a chronic-state of fatigue. 
Drove up to the door in a cab — his own, by the way, 
and a confoundedly handsome affair it is — gave the reins 
to his tiger, and stared at the building tranquilly for at 
least two minutes before he came in, stared at old Flynn 
when he did come in, stared at m'e, shook hands with 
old Flynn, exhaustedly, and then subsided into listening 
and paring his nails during the remainder of the inter- 
view.’’ 

Which might or might not be discreet under the 
circumstances,” said Dolly. “ Perhaps he had nothing 
to say. Never mind, Grif Let us console ourselves 
with the thought that we are not as these utterly worth- 
less explorers of the East are,” with a flourish of the 
scissors. 

“Better is a dinner of herbs in Vagabondia, with a 
garnish of conversation and bon mots, than a stalled ox 
among the Philistines with dullness,” 

But about an hour after Griffith had taken his depar- 
ture, as she was bending over the table, industriously 
clipping at the merino, a thought suddenly crossed her 
mind, which made her drop her scissors and look up 
meditatively. 

“ By the way,” she began, all at once. “ Yes, it must 
be ! How was it 1 did not think of it when Grif was 
talking. I am sure it was Gowan, Lady Augusta said. 
To be sure it was. Mollie, this exploring nephew of the 
Flynns is to partake of coffee and conversation with us 
at the Bilberrys on Friday, if I am not mistaken, and I 
actually never remembered it until now.” 


IN THE CAMFS OF THE PHILISTINES. 


29 


• • CHAPTER 11. 

IN THE CAMPS OF THE PHILISTINES. 

A TOILET in . Vagabondia was an event. Not an 
ordinary toilet, of course, but a toilet extraordi- 
nary — such a toilet as is necessarily called forth by some 
festive gathering or unusual occasion. It was also an 
excitement after a manner, and not actually a disagree- 
able one. It called forth the inventive and creative 
powers of the whole family, and brought to light hid- 
den resources. It also aroused energy, and being a suc- 
cess,. was invariably rejoiced over as a brilliant success. 
Respectability might complacently retire to its well-fur- 
nished chamber, and choose serenely from its unlimited 
supply of figurative purple and legendary fine linen, 
without finding a situation either dramatic or amusing; 
but in Vagabondia this was not the case. 

Having contrived to conjure up, as it were, from the 
secret places of the earth an evening dress, are not gloves 
still necessary ? and being safe as regards gloves, do not 
the emergencies of the toilet call for minor details seem- 
ingly unimportant, but still not to be done without? 
Finding this to be the case, the household of Crewe 
rallied all its forces upon such occasions, and set aside all 
domestic arrangements for the time being. It really was 
not actually impossible that Dolly should have prepared 
for a rejoicing without the assistance of Mollie and 
Aimee, Mrs. Phil and Tod, with occasional artistic sug- 


80 


DOLLY. 


gestions from Phil and any particular friend of the family, 
who chanced to be below-stairs, within hearing distance. 
It might not have appeared an impossibility, I should 
say, to ordinary people, but the household of Crewe 
regarded it as such, and accordingly,.on the night of the 
Bilberry gathering, accompanied Dolly in a body to h^r 
tiring-room. 

Upon the bed lay the merino dress, white, modest, and 
untrimmed, save for the swan’s-down accompaniments, 
but fitting to a shade and exhibiting an artistic sweep of 
train. 

“ It is a discreet sort of garment,” said Dolly, by way 
of comment ; “ and it is ‘.suitable to our social position.’ 
Do you remember when Lady Augusta said that about 
my black alpaca, girls ? Pleasant little observation, 
wasn’t it? ’Toinette, I trust hair-pins are not injurious 
to infantine digestive organs. If they are, perhaps it 
would be as well to convince Tod that such is the case. 
What is the matter, Mollie ?” 

Mollie, leaning upon the dressing-table in her favorite 
attitude, was looking I’ather discontented. She was look- 
ing very pretty, also, it might be said; but this was noth- 
ing unusual, for she was the beauty of the family. Her 
great sleepy, warm brown eyes being upraised to Dolly, 
showed larger and warmer and browner than usual, the 
heavy brown locks tumbling down over her shoulders, 
caught a sort of brownish, coppery shade in the flare of 
gaslight; there was a delicious flush on her soft, full 
•cheeks, and her ripe lips were curved in a lovely dissat- 
isfaction. Hence Dolly’s remark. 

“ I wish I was going,” said the child. 

Dolly’s eyes flew open wide, in a very sublimity of as- 
tonishment. 


m TEE CAMPS OF THE PHILISTINES. 


31 


‘^Wish you were going?” she echoed. “To the Bil- 
berrys ?” 

Mollie nodded. 

“Yes, even there. I want to go somewhere. I think 
I should enjoy myself a little anywhere. I should like 
to see the people, and hear them talk, and find out what 
they do, and wear an evening dress.” 

Dolly gazed at her in mingled pity and bewilderment. 

“Mollie,” she said, “you are very innocent; and I al- 
ways knew you were very innocent; but I did not know 
you were as innocent as this — so utterly free from human 
guile that you could imagine pleasure in a Bilberry 
rejoicing. And I believe,” still regarding her with that 
questioning pity, “I believe you really could. I must 
keep an eye on you, Mollie. You are too unsophisti- 
cated to he out of danger. 

It was quite characteristic of her good-natured sym- 
pathy for the girl that it should occur to her the next 
minute that perhaps it might please her to see • herself 
donned even in such modest finery as the white merino. 
She understood her simple longings after unattainable 
glories so thoroughly, and she was so ready to amuse 
her to the best of her ability. So she suggested it. 

“Put it on, Mollie,” she said, “and let us see how you 
would look in it. I should like to see you in full dress.” 

The child rose with some faint stir of interest in her 
manner and went to the bed. 

“It wouldn’t be long enough for me if it wasn’t for the 
train,” she said; “but the train will make it long enough 
nearly, and I can pull it together at the waist.” 

She put it on at the bedside, and then came forward to 
the toilet-table, and Dolly, catching sight of her in the 
glass as she advanced, actually turned round with a start. 


32 


DOLLY, 


Standing in the light, the soft heavy white folds drap- 
ing themselves about her fine statuesque curves of form 
as they might have draped themselves about the limbs 
of'some young marble Grace or Goddess, with her white 
arms and shoulders uncovered, with her innocent, lovely, 
unchildish yet youthful face, with her large irised eyes, 
her flush of momentary pleasure and half awkwardness, 
she was just a little dazzling, and Dolly did not hesitate 
to tell her so. 

“You are a beauty, Mollie,” she said. “And you are 
a woman in that dress. If you were only a Bilberry now, 
what a capital your face would be to you, and what a belle 
you would be !” 

Which remarks, if indiscreet, were affectionate, and 
made in perfect good faith. 

But when having donned the merino herself she made 
her way down the dark staircase to the parlor, there was 
a vague ghost of uneasiness in her mind, and it was the 
sight of Mollie in full dress which had aroused it. 

“ She is so very pretty,” she said to herself “ I scarcely 
knew how very pretty she was until I turned round from 
the glass to look at her. What a pity it is that we are 
not rich enough to do her ju.stice, and let her enjoy her- 
self as other girls do. And — and,” with a little sigh, “I 
am afraid we. are a dreadfully careless lot. I wonder if 
Phil ever thinks about it? And she is so innocent and 
ignorant too. I hope she wont fall in love with any- 
body disreputable. I wish I knew how to take care of 
her.” 

And yet when she went into the parlor to run the 
gauntlet of family inspection, and walked across the 
floor to show the sweep of her train, and tried her little 
opera hood on Tod before putting it on herself, a casual 


IN THE CAMPS OF THE PHILISTINES: 


33 


observer would certainly have decided that she had never 
liad a serious thought in her life. 

Griffith was there, of course. At such times his pres- 
ence was considered absolutely necessary, and his admi- 
ration was always unbounded. His portion it was to 
tuck her under his arm and lead her out to the cab when 
the train and wraps were arranged and the hood put on. 
This evening, when he had made her comfortable and 
shut the door, she leaned out of the window at the last 
moment to speak to him. 

“ I forgot to tell you, Griffith,” she said, “ Lady Augusta 
said something about a Mr. Gowan to Mr. Bilberry the 
other day when she invited me. I wonder if it is the 
Gowan you were telling me about ? He is to be there 
to-night.” 

“ Of course it is,” answered Griffith,- with sudden dis- 
content. “ He is just the .sort of fellow the Bilberrys 
would lionize.” 

It was rather incorrect of Dolly to feel, as she did, a 
sudden flash of anticipation. She could not help it. This 
intense appreciation of a novel or dramatic encounter with 
an eligible Philistine was her great weakness, and she 
made no secret of it even with her lover, which was un- 
wise if frank. 

She gave her fan a wicked flirt, and her eyes flashed as 
she did it. 

‘‘Amfneof valuable information lies unexplored before 
me,” she said. “ I must make minute inquiries concern- 
ing the habits and peculiarities of the people of the East. 
I shall take the lion in tow, and Lady Augusta’s happi- 
ness will be complete.” 

Griffith turned absolutely pale — his conquering demon 
was jealousy. 

’ 3 


34 


DOLLY. 


'' Look here, Dolly,” he began. 

But Dolly settled herself in her seat again, and waived 
her hand with an air of extreme satisfaction. She did 
not mean to make him miserable, and would have been 
filled with remorse if she had quite understood the ex- 
tent of the suffering she imposed upon him sometimes 
merely through her spirit, and the daring onslaughts she 
made upon people for whom she cared little or nothing. 
She understood his numerous other peculiarities pretty 
thoroughly, but she did not understand his jealousy, for 
the simple reason that she had never been jealous in her 
life. 

Tell the cabman to drive on,” she said, with a flour- 
ish. “ There is balm to be found even in Bilberry.” 

And when the man drove on she composed herself 
comfortably in a corner of the vehicle, in perfect uncon- 
sciousness of the fact that she had left a thorn behind, 
rankling in the bosom of the poor fellow who watched 
her from the pavement. 

She was rather late, she found, on reaching her desti- 
nation. The parlors, were full, and the more enterprising 
of the guests were beginning to group themselves in 
twos and threes, and make spasmodic efforts at conversa- 
tion. But conversation at a Bilberry assemblage was 
rarely a success — it was so evident that to converse was 
a point of etiquette, and it was so patent that conversa- 
tion was expected from everybody, whether they had 
anything to say or not. 

Inoffensive individuals of retiring temperament being 
introduced to each other solemnly and with ceremony, 
felt that to be silent was to be guilty of a glaring breach 
of Bilberry decorum, and casting about in mental agony 
for available remarks, found none, and were overwhelmed 


m THE CAMPS OF TEE PHILISTINES, 


35 


with amiable confusion. Lady Augusta herself in cop- 
per-colored silk of the most unbending quality and make, 
was not conducive to cheerfulness. Yet Dolly’s first 
thought on catching sight of her this evening was a 
cheerful if audacious one. 

“ She looks as if she was dressed in a boiler,” she 
commented, inwardly. “ I wonder if I shall ever live so 
long — I wonder if I ever could live long enough to 
submit to a dress like that. And yet she seems to be 
almost happy in the possession of it. But, I dare say, 
that is the result of conscious virtue.” 

It was a very fortunate thing for Dolly that she was 
not easily discomposed. Most girls entering a room full 
of people, evidently unemployed, and in consequence 
naturally prone to not too charitable criticism of new 
comers, might have lost self-possession. Not so, Dolly 
Crewe. Being announced, she came in artistically — 
neither with unnecessary hurry nor timidly, and with 
not the least atom of shrinking from the eyes turned 
toward .her, and simple and unassuming a young person 
as she appeared on first sight, more than one pair of 
eyes in question found themselves attracted singularly 
by the white merino, the white shoulders, the elaborate 
tresses, and the serene, round, innocent-looking orbs. 

Lady Augusta advanced slightly to meet her, with a 
gruesome rustling of copper-colored stiffness. She did 
not approve of Dolly at any time, but she specially dis- 
approved of her habit of setting time at defiance and 
ignoring the consequences. 

“ I am very glad to see you,” she said, with the air of 
a potentate issuing a proclamation. “ I thought ” — some- 
what severely — “ that you were not coming at all.” 

“ Did you ?” remarked Dolly, with tranquillity. 


36 


DOLLY. 


“ Yes,” returned her ladyship. ‘'And I could not 
understand it. It is nine o’clock now, and I believe I 
mentioned eight as the hour.” 

“ I dare say you did,” said Dolly, unfurling her small 
downy, white fan, and using it with much serene grace; 
“ but I wasn’t ready at eight. I hope you are very well.” 

.“Thank you,” replied her ladyship, icily. “I am very 
well. Will you go and take a seat by Euphemia ? I 
allowed her to come into the room to-night, and I notice 
that her manner is not so self-possessed as I should 
wish.” 

Dolly gave a little nod of aquiescence, and looked 
across the room to where the luckless Euphemia sat 
edged in a corner behind a row of painfully-conversa- 
tional elderly gentlemen, who were struggling with the 
best intentions to keep up a theological discourse with 
the Rev, Marmaduke. Euphemia was the eldest Miss 
Bilberry, and Euphemia was not a success. She was 
overgrown and angular, and suffered from chronic em- 
barrassment, which was not alleviated by the eye of her 
maternal parent being upon her. She was one of Dolly’s 
pupils, and cherished a secret but enthusiastic admira- 
tion for her. And, upon the whole, Dolly was rather 
fond of the girl. She was good-natured and unsophisti- 
cated, and bore the consciousness of her physical and 
mental imperfections with a humility which was almost 
touching to her friend sometimes. Catching Dolly’s eye 
on this occasion, she glanced at her imploringly, and 
then catching the eye of her mother, blushed to the tips 
of her ears, and relapsed into secret anguish of mind. 

But Dolly, recognising her misery, smiled reassuringly, 
and made her way across the room to her, even insinuat- 
ing herself through the theological phalanx. 

“ I am so glad you are here at last,” said the girl. “ I 


m THB CAMPS OF THE PHILISTINES. 


37 


was so afraid you wouldn’t come. And oh, how nice 
you look, and how beautifully you manage your train. 
I could never do it in the Wbrld. I should be sure to 
tumble over it. But nothing ever seems to trouble 
you at all. You haven’t any idea how lovely you were 
when you went across the room to mamma. Everybody 
looked at you, and I don’t wonder at it.” 

“ They would have looked at anybody, answered 
Dolly, laughing. “ They had nothing else to do.” 

“ That is quite true, poor things,” sighed Euphemia, 
sympathetically. ‘‘You don’t know .the worst yet, 
either. You don’t know how stupid they are and can 
be, Dolly. That old gentleman near the screen has not 
spoken one word yet, and he keeps sighing and wiping 
the top of his bald head with his pocket-handkerchief 
until I can’t keep my eyes off him, and I am afraid he 
has noticed me. I don’t mean any harm, I’m sure, but 
I have got nothing to do myself, and I can’t help it. 
But what I was going to say was, that people looked at 
you as they did not look at others who came in. You 
seem different some way. And I’m sure that Mr. 
Gowan of mamma’s has been staring at you until it is 
positively rude of him.” 

Dolly’s slowly moving fan became stationary for a 
moment. 

“ Mr. Gowan,” she said. “ Who is Mr. Gowan ?” 

“ One of mamma’s people,” answered Euphemia, 
“ though I’m sure I can’t quite understand how he can 
be one of them. He looks so different to the rest. He 
is very rich, you know, and very aristocratic and has 
travelled a great deal. He has been all over the world, 
they say. There he is at that side- table.” 

Dolly’s eyes travelling round the assemblage with 


38 


DOLLY. 


complacent indifference, travelled at last to the side- 
table where the subject of Euphemia’s remarks sat. 

He really was an eligible Philistine it seemed, despite 
Griffith’s unflattering description of him. 

He was a long-limbed, graceful man with an aquiline 
face and superb languorous, eyes, which at this moment 
were resting complacently upon Dolly herself. It was 
not exactly admiration, either, which they expressed, it 
W'as something of a more entertaining nature, at least so 
Dolly found it — it was nothing more nor less than a 
slowly awakening interest in her which paid her the 
compliment of rising above the surface of evident bore- 
dom and overcoming lassitude. It looked as if he was 
just beginning to study her, and found the game worth 
the candle. Dolly met his glance with beautiful but hy^ 
pocritical steadiness, and as she met it she measured 
him. Then she turned to Euphemia again and fluttered 
the fan slowly and serenely. 

“ He’s nice, isn’t he ?” commented the guileless Phemie. 
‘‘If the rest of them were like him, I don’t think we 
should be so stupid, but as it is, you know, he can’t 
talk when there is nobody to talk to.” 

“ No,” said Dolly. “ One could hardly expect it of 
him. But I wonder why he does not say something to 
that thin lady in the dress-cap.” 

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Phemie, ‘! I don’t wonder in 
the least. That is Miss Berenice MacDowlas, Dolly.” 

“ Miss Berenice MacDowlas 1” echoed Dolly, with a 
start. “You don’t say so?” 

“ Yes,” answered Euphemia. “ Do you know her ? 
You spoke as if you did.” 

“Well — yes — no,” answered Dolly, with a queer, little 
half laugh. “ I should say I know somebody who does.” 


IN’ THE CAMPS OF THE PHILISTINES. 


39 


And she looked -as if she was rather enjoying some 
small joke of her own. The fact was that Miss Mac- 
Dowlas was no other than Griffith’s amiable aunt. But, 
of course, it would not have done to tell this to Euphe- 
mia Bilberry. Euphemia’s ideas on the subject of the 
tender passion were as yet rather crude and unformed, 
and Dolly Crewe was not prone to sentimental con- 
fidences, so, as yet, Euphemia and, indeed, the whole 
Bilberry family, remained in blissful ignorance of the 
very existence of such a person as Mr. Griffith Donne. 

If personal appearance was to be relied upon. Miss 
MacDowlas was not a promising subject for diplomatic 
beguiling. 

“ We have no need to depend upon her,” was Dolly’s 
mental decision. “ One glimpse of life in Vagabondia 
would end poor Griffith’s chances with her. I wonder 
what she would think if she could see Tod in all his 
glory when ’Toinette and Phil are busy painting.” 

And her vivid recollection of the personal adornments 
of the immortal Tod at such times brought a smile to 
her lips. 

She made herself very comfortable in her corner, and 
exerting herself to her utmost to alleviate Euphemia’s 
sufferings, succeeded so far that the girl forgot every- 
thing else but her enjoyment of her friend’s caustic 
speeches and satirical little jokes. Dolly was not afraid 
of results, and, standing in no awe of public opinion, gave 
herself up to the encouraging of any shadow of amuse- 
ment quite heartily. She was so entertaining in a small 
way upon this occasion, that Euphemia’s frame of mind 
became in some degree ecstatic. From her place of state 
across the room. Lady Augusta regarded them with dis- 
approval. It was so very evident that they were enjoying 


40 


DOLLY. 


themselves, and that this shocking Dorothea Crewe was 
not to be suppressed. (Dorothea, be it known, was Dolly’s 
baptismal name, and Lady Augusta held to its full pro^ 
nunciation as a matter of duty.) It was useless, however, 
to disapprove. Behind the theological phalanx Dolly sat 
enthroned plainly in the best of spirits, and in rather a 
dangerous mood, to judge from outward appearances. 
There was nothing of the poor relation about her at least. 
The little, downy, snowy fan was being manipulated grace- 
fully, and with occasional artistic little flourishes, her enjoy- 
able little roulades of laughter tinkled audaciously; her 
white shoulders were expressive, her gestures charming, 
and, above all, people were beginning to look at her 
admiringly, if not with absolute envy. Something must 
be done. 

Lady Augusta moved across the room, piloting her 
way between people on ottomans and people on chairs, 
rustling with awe-inspiring majesty; and reaching the 
corner at last, she spoke to the daring Dolly over the 
heads of the phalanx. 

‘‘Dorothea,” she said, “we should like a little music.” 

This she had expected would be a move which could 
not fail to set the young' person in her right place. It 
would show her that her time was not her own, and that 
she was expected to make herself useful ; and it would 
also set to rights any little mistake lookers-on might 
have previously labored under as to her position. But 
even this did not destroy Dolly’s equanimity. She finished 
the small joke she had been making to Phemie, and then 
turned to her august relative with a sweet but trying smile. 

“ Music?” she said. “Certainly.” And arose at once 
with a trying smile still upon her lips. 

Then Lady Augusta saw her mistake. It was only 


m THE CAMPS OF THE PHILISTINES. 


41 


another chance for Miss Dolly to display herself to 
advantage, after all. When she arose from her seat in 
the corner, and gave a glance of inspection to her train 
over her bare white shoulder, people began to look at 
her again ; and when she crossed the room, serene, fair, 
piquant and unconscious, she was an actual Sensation — 
and to create a sensation in the Bilberry parlors was to 
attain a triumph. Worse than this, also, as her ladyship 
passed the bald-headed individual by the screen, that 
gentleman — who was a lion as regarded worldly posses- 
sions — condescended to make his first remark for the 
evening. 

“ Pretty girl that,” he said. “ Nice girl — fine figure. 
Relative ?” 

“ My daughter’s governess, sir,” replied her ladyship, 
rigidly. 

And in Dolly’s passage across the room another inci- 
dent occurred which was not lost upon the head of the 
house of Bilberry. Near the seat of Mr. Ralph Gowan 
stood a vacated chair, which obstructed the passage to 
the piano, and, observing it, the gentleman in question 
rose and removed it, bowing obsequiously in reply to 
Dolly’s slight gesture of thanks, and when she took 
her place at the instrument he moved to a seat near by, 
and settled himself to listen with the air of a man 
who expected to enjoy the performance. 

And he evidently did enjoy it, for a very pleasant little 
performance it was. The songs had a thrill of either 
pathos or piquancy in every word and note, and the 
audience found they were listening in spite of them- 
selves. 

When they were ended, Ralph Gowan sought out 
Lady Augusta in her stronghold, and placidly proposed 


42 


DOLLY. 


being introduced to her young guest ; and since it was 
evident that he intended to leave her no alternative, her 
ladyship was fain to comply ; and so before half the 
evening was over, Dolly found herself being entertained 
as she had never been entertained before in the camps of 
the Philistines at least. And as to the Eastern explorer, 
boredom was forgotten for the time, and he gave himself 
up entirely to the amusing and enjoying of this piquant 
young person with the white shoulders. 

“Crewe,’' he said to her during the course of their first 
conversation. “ I am sure Lady Augusta said ' Crewe.’ 
Then you are relatives, I suppose ?” 

“ Poor relations,” answered Dolly, coolly, and without 
a shadow of discomfiture. “I am the children’s gov- 
erness. Trying, isn’t it?” 

Ralph Gowan met the gaze of the bright eyes a trifle 
admiringly. Even at this early period of their acquaint- 
ance he was falling into the snare every other man fell 
into — the snare of finding that Dolly Crewe was start- 
lingly unlike anybody else. 

“Not for the children,” he said. “Under such cir- 
cumstances education must necessarily acquire a new 
charm.” 

“ Thank you,” said Dolly. 

When supper was announced, Lady Augusta made 
another attack and was foiled again. She came to their 
corner, and bending over Dolly, spoke to her in stage- 
whisper. 

“ I will bring young Mr. Jessup to take you into the 
supper-room, Dorothea,” she said. 

But Dolly’s plans were already arranged, and even if 
such had not been the case she would scarcely have 
rejoiced at the prospect of the escort of young Mr. 


m THE CAMPS OF THE PHILISTINES. 


43 


Jessup, who was a mild young idiot engaged in the 
study of theology. 

“ Thank you, Lady Augusta,” she said, cheerfully, 
“but I have promised Mr. Go wan.” 

And Lady Augusta had the pleasure of seeing her 
leave the room a minute later, with her small glove 
slipped through Ralph Gowan’s arm, and the plainly 
delighted face of that gentleman inclined attentively 
toward the elaborate Frenchy coiffure. 

At the supper-table little Miss Crewe was a prominent 
feature. At her end of the table conversation flourished 
and cheerfulness reigned. Even Euphemia and young 
•Mr. Jessup, .who had come down together in a mutual 
agony of embarrassment, began to pluck up spirit and 
hazard occasional remarks and finally even joined in the 
laughter at Dolly’s witticism. 

People lower down the table glanced up across the 
various dishes and envied the group who seemed to set 
the general heaviness and discontent at defiance. 

Dolly, accompanied by coffee and cakes, was more at 
home and more delightful than ever, so delightful, 
indeed, that Ralph Gowan began to regard even Lady 
Augusta with gratitude, since it was to her he was, to 
some extent, indebted for his new acquaintance. 

She is a delightful — yes, a delightful girl !” exclaimed 
young Mr. Jessup, confidentially addressing Euphemia, 
and blushing vividly at his own boldness. “ I never 
heard such a laugh as she has in my life. It is actually 
exhilarating. It quite raises one’s spirits,” with mild 
naivetL 

Euphemia began to brighten at once. She could talk 
about Dolly Crewe if she could talk about nothing else. 

“ Oh, but you haven’t .seen a7iything of her yet,” she 


44 


DOLLY. 


said, in a burst of enthusiasm. If you could only see 
her every day, as I do, and hear the witty things she says, 
and see how self-possessed she is, when other people 
would be perfectly miserable with confusion, there would 
be no wonder at your saying you never saw anybody like 
her. /never did, I am sure. And then, you know, some- 
how or other, she always looks so well in everything she 
wears — even in the shabbiest things, and her things are 
nearly always shabby enough, for they are dreadfully 
poor. She is always finding new ways of wearing things 
or new ways of doing her hair or- — or something. It is 
the way her dresses fit, I think. Oh, dear, how I do wish 
the dressmaker could make mine fit as hers do. Just look 
at that white merino, now, for instance. It is the plainest 
dress in the room, and there is not a bit of fuss or trim- 
ming about it, and yet see how soft the folds look and 
how it hangs — the train, you know. It reminds me of a 
picture — one of those pictures in fashionable monthlies 
— illustrations of love stories, you know.” 

*‘It is a very pretty dress,” said young Mr. Jessup, eye- 
ing it with great interest, “ What did you say the stuff 
W'as called?” 

Merino,” answered Phemie. 

Merino,” repeated Mr. Jessup. “ I will try and remem- 
ber. I should like my sister Lucinda Maria to have a 
dress like it.” 

And he regarded it with growing admiration just tem- 
pered by the effect of a mental picture of Lucinda Maria, 
who was bony and of remarkable proportions, attired in 
its soft and flowing counterpart, with white swan’s-down 
adorning her bare shoulders. 

“ May I ask,” said Miss MacDowlas, at the bottom of 
the table, to Lady Augusta. “ May I ask who that young 


IJSr THE CAMPS OF THE PHILISTINES. 


45 


lady with the fresh complexion is — the young lady in 
white at the other end ?” 

“ That is my governess,” replied her ladyship, freez- 
ingly. “Miss Dorothea Crewe.” 

And Miss MacDowlas settled her eyeglass and gave 
Miss Dorothea Crewe the benefit of a prolonged exami- 
nation. 

“ Crewe,” she said, at length. “ Poor relation, I sup- 
pose ?” with some sharpness of mannen Dignity was 
lost upon Miss MacDowlas. 

“ A branch of my family who are no great credit to 
it,” was the majestic rejoinder. 

“ Oh, indeed,” was the lady’s sole remark, and then 
Miss MacDowlas returned to her coffee, still, however, 
keeping her double eyeglass across her nose and casting 
an occasional glance at Dolly. 

And just at this particular moment Dolly was uncon- 
sciously sealing Ralph Gowan’s fate for him. Quite un- 
consciously, I repeat, for the most serious of Dolly’s 
iniquities were generally unconscious. When she flirted, 
her flirtations were of so frank and open a nature, that 
bewildered and fascinated though her victims might be, 
they must have been blind indeed to have been deceived, 
and so there were those who survived them and left the 
field safe, though somewhat sore at heart. But when 
she was in her honest, earnest, life-enjoying moods and 
meant no harm — when she was simply enjoying herself 
and trying to amuse her masculine companion, when 
.her gestures were unconscious and her speeches un- 
studied, when she laughed through sheer merriment and 
was charmingly theatrical because she could not help it 
and because little bits of pathos and comedy were natu- 
ral to her at times, then it was that the danger became 


46 


DOLLY. 


deadly; then it was that her admirers were regardless 
of consequences, and defied results. And she was in 
just such a mood to-night. 

“ Come and see us ?” she was saying. “ Of course 
you may ; and if you come, you shall have an insight 
into the domestic workings of modern Vagabondia. You 
shall be introduced to half-a-dozen people who toil not, 
neither do they spin successfully, for their toiling and 
spinning seems to have little result, after all. You shall 
see shabbiness and the spice of life hand-in-hand ; and, 
I dare say, you will find that the figurative dinner of 
herbs is not utterly destitute of a flavor of piqiia^tcy. 
You shall see people who enjoy themselves in sheer de- 
fiance of circumstances, and who find a pathos in every-* 
day events, which in the camps of the Philistines, mean 
nothing. Yes, you may come if you care to.” And 
Ralph Gowan, looking down at the changeful eyes, saw 
a queer little, almost tender light shining in their depths 
— summoned up all at Jnce perhaps by one of those in- 
explicable touches of pathos of which she had spoken. 

But even coffee and conversation must come to an 
end at last, and so the end of this evening came. People 
began to drop away one by one, bidding their hostess 
good-night with the air of individuals who had per- 
formed a duty, and were relieved to find it performed 
and disposed of for the time being. So Dolly, leaving 
her companion Avith a bright farewell, and amiably dis- 
posing of Lady Augusta, slipped up-stairs to the retir- 
ing-room for her wraps. In the course of three minute^ 
she came down again, the scarlet shawl draped around 
her, and, the unreasonable but highly-ornamental hood 
donned. She was of so little consequence in the Bil- 
berry household that no one met her when she reap- 


m THE CAMPS OF TEE PHILISTINES. 


47 


peared. Even the servants knew that her convenience 
or inconvenience were of small moment, so the task of 
summoning her cab would have devolved upon herself, 
had it not been for a little incident which might have 
been either an accident or otherwise. As she came down 
the staircase a gentleman crossed the threshold of the 
parlor and came to meet her — and this gentleman was 
no other than Ralph Gowan. 

“ Let me have the pleasure of putting you into 
your ” 

“ Cab,” ended Dolly, with a trill of a laugh — it was so 
evident that he had been going to say “ carriage.” 
"‘Thank you, with the greatest of pleasure. Indeed, it 
is rather a relief to me, for they generally keep me wait- 
ing. And I detest waiting.” 

He handed her into her seat, and lingered to see that 
she was comfortable, perhaps with unnecessary caution ; 
and then, when she gave him her hand through the win- 
dow, he held it for a moment longer than was exactly 
called for by the exigencies of the occasion. 

■ “You will not forget that you have given me permis- 
sion to call,” he said, hesitating slightly. 

“ Oh, dear no !” she answered. “ I shall not forget. 
We are always glad to see people — in Yagabondia.” 

And as the cab drovd off, she waved the hand he 
had held in an airy gesture of adieu, gave him a be- 
wildering farewell nod, and withdrawing her fresh, girlish 
face from the window, disappeared in the shadow within 
the vehicle. 

“ Great Jove [’’ meditated Ralph Gowan, when he had 
seen the last of her. “And this is a nursery governess — 
a sort of escape-valve for the spleen and ill-moods of 
that woman in copper-color. She teaches them French 


48 


DOLLY. 


and music, I dare say, and makes those divine, spicy little 
jokes of hers over the dog-eared arithmetic. Ah, well ! 
such is impartial Fortune.” And he strolled back into the 
house again, to majce his adieus to Lady Augusta, with 
the bewitching Greuze face fresh in his memory. 

But, for her part, Dolly having left him behind in the 
Philistine camp, was nestling comfortably in the dark 
corner of her cab, thinking of Griffith, as she always 
did think of him when she found herself alone for a 
moment. 

“ I wonder if he will be at home when I get there,” 
she said. ” Poor fellow ! he would find it dull enough 
without me, unless they were all in unusually good 
spirits. I wonder if the time ever will come when we 
shall have a little house of our own, and can go out to- 
gether or stay at home, just as we like.” 


IN WHICH THE TRAIN IS LAID. 


49 


CHAPTER III. 

IN WHICH THE TRAIN IS LAID. 

A fter a holiday comes a rest day.” The astuteness 
of this proverb continually proved itself in Vaga- 
bondia, and this was more particularly the case when the 
holiday had been Dolly’s, inasmuch as Dolly was invari- 
ably called upon to “fight her battles o’er again,” and 
recount her experiences the day following a visit, for the 
delectation of the household. Had there appeared in 
the camps a Philistine of notoriety, then that Philistine 
must play his or her part again through the medium of 
Dolly’s own inimitable powers of description or repre- 
sentation ; had any little scene occurred possessing a 
spice of piquant flavoring, or illustrating any Philistine 
peculiarity, then Dolly was quite equal to the task of 
putting it upon the family stage, and re-enacting it with 
iniquitous seasonings and additions of her own. And 
yet the fun was never of an ill-natured sort; it would 
have been a sheer impossibility for any of them to be 
actually ill-natured ; and when Dolly gave them a cor- 
rect and not-to-be-rivalled embodiment of Lady Augusta 
in reception of her guests, with an accurate description 
of the “ great Copper-Boiler costume,” the bursts of 
applause meant nothing more than that Dolly’s imitative 
gifts were in good condition, and that the “great Copper- 
Boiler costume” was a success. Then the feminine mind 
4 


50 


DOLLY, 


being keenly alive to an interest in earthly vanities, an 
enlargement on Philistine adornments was considered 
necessary, and Dolly always rendered herself popular by 
a minute description of the reigning fashions, as dis- 
played by the Bilberry element. She found herself quite 
repaid for the trouble of going into detail, by the unso- 
phisticated pleasure in Mollie’s eyes alone, for to Mollie 
outward furnishings seemed more than worthy of descrip- 
tion and discussion. 

Accordingly, the morning after Lady Augusta’s conver- 
sazio7tey Dolly gave herself up to the task of enliven- 
ing the household. It was Saturday morning, fortu- 
nately, and on Saturday her visits to the Bilberry mansion 
were dispensed with, so she was quite at liberty to seat 
herself by the fire, with Tod in her arms, and recount the 
events of the evening. She cherished a wonderful fond- 
ness for Tod, and somehow or other had almost regarded 
him as a special charge from the first. She had airways 
been a favorite with him, as she was a favorite with most 
children, perhaps through the very gift of adaptation 
which has been spoken of as one of her chief character- 
istics. She was just as natural and thoroughly at-home 
with Tod in her arms, or clambering over her feet, or 
clutching at the economically elaborate trimmings of her 
dress, as she was anywhere else under any other circum- 
stances ; and when on this occasion Griffith came in at 
noon to hear the news, and found her kneeling upon the 
carpet with outstretched hands- teaching the pretty little 
tottering fellow to walk, he felt her simply irresistible. 

‘‘ Come to Aunt Dolly,” she was saying. Tod, come 
to Aunt Dolly.” And then she looked up laughing. 

Look at him, Griffith,” she said. “ He has walked all 
the way from that arm-cTiair.” And then she made a 


m WHICH THE TRAIN IS LAID. 


51 


little rush at the child, and caught him in her arms with 
a little whirl, and jumped up with such a light-hearted 
enjoyment of the whole affair that it was positively ex- 
citing to look at her. 

it was quite natural — indeed, it would have been quite 
unnatural if she had not found her usual abiding place 
in her lover’s encircling arm at once, even with Tod con- 
veniently established on one of her own, and evidently 
regarding his own proximity upon such an occasion as 
remarkable if nothing else. That arm of Griffith’s usu- 
ally did slip around her waist even at the most ordinary 
times, and long use had so accustomed* Dolly to the 
habit that she would have experienced some slight feel- 
ing of astonishment if the amiable familiarity had been 
omitted. 

It was rather a surprise to the young man to find that 
Miss MacDowlas had really appeared upon the scene, 
and that she had partaken of coffee and conversation in 
the flesh the evening before. 

“ But it’s just like her,” he said. “ She is the sort of 
relative who always does turn up unexpectedly, Dolly. 
How does she look ?” 

“Juvenescent,” said Dolly; “ depressingly so to per- 
sons who rely upon her for the realizing of expectations. 
A very few minutes satisfied me that I should never be- 
come Mrs. Griffith Donne upon her money. It is a very 
fortunate thing for us that we are of Vagabondian ante- 
cedents, Griffith — just see how we might trouble our- 
selves, and wear our patience out over Miss MacDowlas, if 
we troubled ourselves about anything. This being utterly 
free from the care of worldly possessions makes one 
touchingly disinterested. Since we have nothing to ex- 
pect, we are perfectly willing to wait until we get it.” 


52 


DOLLY, 


She had thought so little about Ralph Gowan, — once 
losing sight of him, as he stood watching her on the 
pavement, that in discussing other subjects she forgot 
to mention him for the time being, and it was only Mol- 
lie’s entrance into the room that brought him upon the 
carpet. 

Coming in, charming and untidy, as she generally was 
during the earlier part of the day, her hair bunched up 
in a lovely, disorderly knot, and the dimple on her left 
cheek artistically accentuated by a small patch of black, 
the youngest Miss Crewe yet appeared to advantage, 
when, after appropriating Tod, she slipped down into a 
sitting posture with him on the carpet, in the midst of 
the amplitude of folds of Lady Augusta’s once gor- 
geous w’rapper. 

“ Have you told him about the great Copper-Boiler 
costume, Dolly?” she said, bending down so that one 
brown tress hung swaying before Tod’s eyes. “ Has 
she, Griffith ?” 

‘‘Yes,” answered Griffith, looking at her with a vague 
sense of admiration. He shared all Dolly’s enthusiasm 
on the subject of Mollie’s dangerous prettiness. 

“Wasn’t it good? I wish I was as cool as Dolly is. 
And poor ’Phemie — and the gentleman who made love 
to you all evening, Dolly. What was his name? Wasn’t 
it Gowan ?” 

Griffith’s eyes turned toward Dolly that instant. 

“ Gowan !” he exclaimed. “You didn’t say anything 
about him. You didn’t even say he was there.” 

“ Didn’t she?” said Mollie, looking up with innocently 
wide-open eyes. “ Why, he made love to her all ” 

“I wish you wouldn’t talk such rubbish, Mollie,” 
Dolly interrupted her — a trifle sharply because she un- 


m WHICH THE TEAIN IS LAID. 


53 


derstood the cloud on her lover’s face so well. Who 
said Mr. Gowan made love to me ? Not I, you may be 
sure. I told you he talked to me, and that was all.” 

'‘You did not tell me that much,” said Griffith, dryly. 

It would scarcely have been human nature for Dolly 
not to have fired a little then, in spite of herself. She 
was constitutionally good-natured, but she was not 
seraphic, and her lover’s rather excusable jealousy was 
specially hard to bear, when, as upon this occasion, it 
had no real foundation. 

“ I did not think it necessary,” she said ; “and, besides, 
I forgot ; but if you wish to know the particulars,” with 
a stiff little air of dignity, “ I can give them you. Mr. 
Gowan was there, and found the evening stupid, as 
every one else did. There was no one else to talk to, so 
he talked to me, and when I came home he put me into 
the cab. And, the fact is, he is a good-natured Philistine 
enough. That is all, I believe, unless you would like me 
to try to record all he said.” 

“No, thank you,” answered Griffith, and instantly 
began to torture himself with imagining what he really 
had said, making the very natural mistake of imagining 
what he would have said himself, and then giving Ralph 
Gowan credit for having perpetrated like tender gallant- 
ries. He never could divest himself of the idea that 
every living man found Dolly as entrancing as he found 
her himself, which was an absurd but affectionate weak- 
ness enough. It could only be one man’s bitter-sweet 
portion to be as desperately and inconsolably in love 
with her as he was himself, and no other than himself, or 
a man who might be his exact prototype, could have 
cherished a love at once so strong and so weak. There 
had been other men who had loved Dolly Crewe — adored 


54 


DOLLY. 


her for awhile, in fact, and imagined themselves wretches 
because they had been unsuccessful ; but they had gen- 
erally outlived their despair, and their adoration cooling 
for want of sustenance, had usually settled down into a 
comfortable admiring liking for the cause of their misery, 
but it would never have been so with Griffith. This 
ordinary, hard-working, ill-paid young man had passion- 
ate impulse and hidden power of suffering enough in his 
restive nature to make a broken hope a broken life to 
him. His lon^-cherished love for the shabbily-attired, 
often-snubbed, dauntless young person yclept Dorothea 
Crewe was the mainspring of his existence. He would 
have done daring deeds of valor for her sake, if circum- 
stances had called upon him to comfort himself in such 
tragic manner ; had he been a knight of olden time, he 
would just have been the chivalrous, indiscreet, ill-regu- 
lated, hot-headed but affectionate young man to have 
entered the lists in his love’s behalf, and tilted against 
tremendous odds, and died unvanquished; but living in 
the nineteenth century, his impetuosity being necessa- 
rily restrained, became concentrated upon one point, and 
chafed him terribly at times. Without Dolly, he would 
have been without an object in life; with Dolly, he was 
willing to face any amount of discouragement and mis- 
fortune; and at this stage of his affection — after years of 
belief in .that far-off blissful future — to lose her would 
have brought him wreck and ruin. 

So when Dolly, in the full consciousness of present 
freedom from iniquity, withdrew herself from his encir- 
cling arm and turned her attention to Tod and Mollie, he 
was far more wretched than he had any right to be, and 
stood watching them, and gnawing his slender moustache, 
gloomy and distrustful. 


m WHICH THE TRAIN IS LAID. 


55 


But this could not last long, of course; brevity was the 
chief characteristic of their little differences. They might 
quarrel, but they always made friends ; and when in a 
short time Mollie, doubtless feeling herself a trifle in the 
way, left the room with the child, Dolly’s impulsive 
warmheartedness got the better of her upon this occa- 
sion as upon all others. 

She came back to her lover’s side and laid a nice little 
hand on his arm. 

“ Don’t let us quarrel about Ralph Gowan, Griffith,” 
she said. “It was my fault; I ought to have told you.” 

He fairly crushed her in his impetuous, remorseful 
embrace almost before she had finished her appeal. His 
distrust of her was as easily overcome as it was roused ; 
one touch of her hand, one suspicion of a tremor in her 
voice, always conquered him and reduced him to peni- 
tent submission. 

“You are an angel,” he said, “and I am an unfeeling 
clod. No other woman would bear with me as you do. 
God bless you, Dolly.” 

She nestled within his arms in her pretty, natural way, 
and took his caresses almost gratefully. Perhaps it would 
have been wiser to have shown him how deep a sting his 
want of faith gave her sometimes, but she was always so 
glad when their misunderstandings were at an end, that 
she would not have so revenged herself upon him for the 
world. The cool, serene, audacious self she exhibited in 
the camps of the Philistines was never shown to Griffith; 
in her intercourse with him she was only a slightly inten- 
sified edition of the child he had fallen in love with years 
before — a bright, quick-witted child, with a deep nature 
and an immense faculty for loving and clinging to people. 
Dolly at twenty was pretty much what she had been at 


56 


DOLLY. 


fifteen, when they had quarrelled and made up again, 
loved each other and romanced over the future bril- 
liancy of prospect which now seemed just as far off as 
ever. 

In five minutes after the clearing away of the tempo- 
rary cloud, they were in a seventh heaven of bliss, as usual. 
In some of his wanderings about town, Griffith had met 
with a modest house, which would have been the very 
thing for them if they had possessed about double the 
income of which they were at present in receipt. He 
often met with houses of this kind ; they seemed, in fact, 
to present themselves to his longing vision every week 
of his life ; and I think it rather to his credit to mention 
that he never failed to describe them to Dolly, and enlarge 
upon their merits with much eloquence. Furniture ware- 
houses also were a source of some simple pleasure to 
them. If they possessed the income (not that they had 
the remotest prospect of possessing it), and rented the 
house, naturally they would require furniture, and it was 
encouraging to know that the necessary articles might 
be bought ^the money was forthcoming. Consequently 
a low-priced table or a cheap sofa were a consolation, if 
not a source of rejoicing, and their happiest hours were 
spent in counting the cost of parlor carpets never to be 
purchased, and window curtains of thin air. They even 
economized sternly in minor matters, and debated the 
expenditure of an extra shilling as closely as if it had 
been a matter entailing the deepest anxiety ; and on the 
whole, perhaps, practical persons might have condemned 
their affectionate, hopeful weakness as childish and non- 
sensical, but they were happy in the indulgence of it at 
all events, and surely they might have been engaged in a 
less tender and more worldly pastime. There were other 


m WHICH THE TRAIN IS LAID. 


57 


people, perhaps, weak and imprudent themselves it may- 
be, who would have seen a touch of simple pathos in this 
unconsciously shown faith in fortune and her not too 
kindly moods. 

“ Old Flynn ought to raise my salary, you know, Dolly,” 
said Griffith. “ I work hard enough for him, confound 
him !” somewhat irrelevantly, but with laudable and not 
unamiable vigor. He meant no harm to “ old Flynn 
he would have done a good-natured thing for him at any 
moment, the mild expletive was simply the result of 
adopted custom. “There isn’t a fellow in the place who 
does as much as I do. I worked from seven in the morning 
till midnight every day last week, and I wrote half his 
editorials for him, and nobody knows he doesn’t get 
them up himself. If he would only give me two hundred 
instead of one, just see how we could live.” 

“We could live on a hundred and fifty,” put in Dolly, 
with an air of practical speculation which did her credit, 
“ if we were economical.” 

“Well, say a hundred and fifty, then,” returned Grif- 
fith, quite as seriously, “ for we should be economical. 
Say a hundred and fifty. It would be nothing to him — 
confound him — but it would be everything in the world 
to us. That house in the suburbs was only thirty pounds, 
taxes and all, and it was just the very thing we should 
want if we were married.” 

“ How many rooms?” asked Dolly. 

“ Six, and kitchen and cupboards and those sort of 
contrivances. I asked particularly — went to see the 
landlord to inquire and see what repairing he would do 
if we wanted the place. There is a garden of a few yards 
in the front, too, and one or two rose-bushes. I don’t 
know whether they ever bloom, but if they do, you could 


58 


DOLLY. 


wear them in your hair. I thought of that the minute I 
saw them. The first time I saw you, Dolly, you had a 
rose in your hair, and I remember thinking I had never 
seen a flower worn in the same way. Other girls don’t ■ 
wear things as you wear them, somehow or other.” 

Dolly acknowledged the compliment with a laugh and 
a coaxing, patronizing little squeeze of his arm, 

“You think they don’t,” she said, “you affectionate 
old fellow, that is it. Well, and what did the landlord 
say ? Would he beautify ?” 

“Well, yes, I think he would if the matter was pressed,” 
said Griffith, returning to the subject with a vigor of en- 
joyment inspiriting to behold. “And, by the way, Dolly, 

I saw a small sofa at a place in town which was just the 
right size to fit into a sort of alcove there is in the front . 
parlor.” ' i 

“ Did you inquire the price ?” said Dolly. i 

“Well — no,” cheerfully, “but I can, if you would like ^ 
to know it. You see, I hadn’t any money, and didn’t 
know when I should have any, and the fact was I felt | 
rather discouraged at the time, and I had an idea the i 
price w'ould make me feel worse, so I did not go in. But | 
it was a comfortable, plump little affair, covered with green | 

— the sort of thing I should like to have in our house, 
when we have one. It would be so comfortable to throw I 
one’s self down on to after a hard day’s work, particularly i 
if one had a headache.” J 

“Yes,” said Dolly, and then half unconsciously and 
quite in spite of herself, the ghost of a sigh escaped - 
her. She could not help wishing things were a trifle 
more real sometimes, bright and whimsically unworldly 
as she was. ? 

“ What did that mean ?” Griffith asked her. J 


IN WHICH THE TRAIN IS LAID. 


59 


She wakened up, as it were, and looked as happy as 
ever in an instant, creeping a trifle closer to him in her 
loving anxiety to blind him to the presence of the odd, 
little pain in her heart. 

“ Nothing,” she said, briskly. And then — “ We don’t 
want much, do we, Griffith ?” 

“No,” said Griffith, a certain grim sense of humor 
getting the better of him. “And we haven’t got it.” 

She laughed outright at the joke quite enjoyably. 
Even the grimmest of jocosities wins its measure of 
respect in Vagabondia, and besides, her laugh removed 
the impression her sigh might have created. She was 
herself again at once. 

“Never mind,” she said. (It was always “never 
mind.”) “Never mind, it will all come right in the 
end. Humble merit must be rewarded, and if humble 
merit isn’t, we can only console ourselves with the rea- 
sonable reflection that there must be something radi- 
cally wrong with the state of society. Who knows 
whether you may not ' get into something,’ as Phil says, 
which may be twenty times better than anything old 
Flynn can give you !” with characteristic Vagabondian 
hopefulness. 

Just at this juncture Phil himself entered — or, rather, 
half entered, for he only put his head — a comely, curled 
head surmounted by a disreputable velvet cap — half into 
the room. 

“Oh, you are here, are you !” he said. “You are the 
fellow I want. I am just touching up something I want 
to show you. Come into the studio for a minute or so, 
Grif” 

“It is that picture Mollie sat for,” he explained, as 


60 


DOLLY. 


they followed him into the big, barren room, dignified by 
the name of studio. “I have just finished it.” 

Mollie was standing before the picture herself when 
they went in to look at it, but she did not turn round on 
hearing them. She had Tod in her arms yet, but she 
seemed to have forgotten his very existence in her pre-oc- 
cupation. And it was scarcely to be wondered at. The 
picture was only a head — Mollie’s own incomparable, 
fresh, drowsy-eyed face standing out in bewitching con- 
trast under some folds of dark drapery thrown over the 
brown hair like a monk’s cowl, two or three autumn- 
tinted oak leaves clinging to a straying tress — but it was 
effective and novel enough to be a trifle startling. And 
Mollie was looking at it with a growing shadow of 
pleasure in her expression. She was slowly awakening 
to a sense of its beauty, and she was by no means dis- 
satisfied. 

“ It is lovely !” Dolly cried out, enthusiastically. 

“ So it is,” said Griffith. “ And as like her as art can 
make it. It’s a success, Phil.” 

Phil stepped back with a critical air to give it a new 
inspection. 

“ Yes, it is a success,” he said. Just give me a chance 
to get it hung well, and it will draw a crowd next season. 
You shall have a new dress if it does, Mollie, and you 
shall choose it yourself” 

Mollie roused herself for a moment, and lighted up. 

“ Shall I ?” she said ; and then all at once she blushed 
in a way that made Dolly stare at her in some wonder. 
It seemed queer to think that Mollie — lovely, careless 
child Mollie — was woman enough to blush over any- 
thing. 

And then Aimee and ’Toinette came in and looked on 


IN WHICH THE TRAIN IS LAID. 


61 


and admired just as openly and heartily as the rest, only 
Aim^e was rather the more reticent of the two, and cast 
furtive glances at Mollie now and then. But Mollie was 
in a new mood, and had very little to say; and half an 
hour after, when her elder sister went into the family 
sitting-room, she found her curled up in an easy-chair 
by the fire, looking reflective. Dolly went to the hearth 
and stood near her. . 

“ What are you thinking about ?” she asked. 

Mollie stirred uneasily, and half blushed again. 

** I don’t know,” she answered. 

“Yes, you do,” contradicted Dolly, good-naturedly. 
“Are you thinking that it is a pleasant sort of a thing 
to be handsome enough to be made a picture of, Mollie?” 

The brown eyes met hers with'^an innocent sort of de- 
precating consciousness. 

“ I — I never thought about myself in that way before,” 
admitted Mollie the charming, naively. 

“ Why,” returned Dolly, quite sincerely, “ you must 
have looked in the glass.” 

“ Ye-es,” with a slow shake of the head ; “but it didn’t 
look the same way in the glass — it didn’t look as nice.” 

Dolly regarded her with a surprise which, it must be 
confessed, was not unmingled with affectionate pity. 
She was not as unsophisticated as Mollie, and scarcely 
ever had been, in fact. As the feminine head of the 
family, she had acquired a certain shrewdness early in 
life, and had taken a place in the household the rest were 
hardly equal to. There had been no such awakening as 
this for her. At fourteen, she had been fully and com- 
placently conscious of the exact status of her charms 
and abilities, physical and mental. She had neither 
under nor overrated them. She had smiled back at her 


62 


DOLLY. 


reflection in her mirror, showing two rows of little milk- 
white teeth, and being well enough satisfied with being 
a charming young person with a secure complexion and 
enviable self-poise. She understood herself, and attained 
perfection in that dazzling art of understanding others. 
Her rather sharp experience had not allowed her to look 
in the glass in guileless ignorance of what she saw there, 
and perhaps this made her all the fonder of Mollie. 

What kind of a dress are you going to choose if 
Phil buys you one ?” she asked. 

“ Maroon,” answered Mollie. “ Oh !” with an actual 
little shuddering breath of desperate delight, “how I 
wish I could have a maroon silk !” 

Dolly shook her head doubtfully. 

“ It wouldn’t be serviceable, because you could only 
have the one, and you couldn’t wear it on wet days,” 
she said. 

“ I shouldn’t care about its being serviceable,” burst forth 
innocent Vagabondia, rebelling against the trammels of 
prudence. “ I want something pretty. I do so detest ser- 
viceable things. I would stay in the house all the wet 
days if I might have a maroon silk to wear when it was 
fine.” 

“ She is beginning to long for purple and fine linen,” 
sighed Dolly, as she ran up to her bed-room afterward. 
“ The saints forefend ! It is a bad sign. She will fall in 
love the next thing. Poor, indiscreet little damsel !” 

But, despite her sage lamentations, there was even at 
that moment a plan maturing in her mind which was an 
odd and inconsistent enough mixture of Vagabondia’s 
good-nature and whim. Mollie’s fancy for the maroon 
silk had struck her as being an artistic one, and there 
was not a Crewe among them who had not a weakness 


IN WHICH THE TRAIN IS LAW. 


63 


for the artistic in effect. Tod himself was imaginatively 
supposed to share it and exhibit preternatural intelli- 
gence upon the subject. In Dolly it amounted to a wild 
passion which she found it impossible to resist. By it 
she was prompted to divers small extravagancies at 
times, and by it she was assisted in the arranging of 
all her personal adornments^ It was impossible to slight 
the mental picture of Mollie with maroon drapery falling 
about her feet, with her cheeks tinted with excited color 
and with that marvel of delight in her eyes. She could 
not help thinking about it. 

“ She would be simply incomparable,” she found her- 
self soliloquizing. “ Just give her that dress, put a white 
flower in her hair and set her down in a ball-room, or in 
the dress circle of a theatre, and she would set the whole 
place astir. Oh, she must have it.” 

It was very foolish and extravagant of course, even 
the people who are weakly tolerant enough to rather 
lean toward Dorothea Crewe, will admit this. The 
money that would purchase the maroon garment would 
have purchased a dozen minor articles far more neces- 
sary to the dilapidated household arrangements, but 
while straining at such domestic gnats as these articles 
were, she was quite willing and even not a trifle anxious 
to swallow Mollie’s gorgeous camel. Such impulsive 
inconsistence was quite characteristic, however, and she 
betook herself to her bed-room quite with the intention 
of working out the problem of accommodating supply 
to demand. 

She took out her purse anxiously and emptied its con- 
tents on to her dressing-table. Two or three crushed 
bills, a scrap or so of poetry presented by Grifflth upon 
various tender occasions, and a discouragingly-small 


G4 


DOLLY. 


bank-note, the sole remains of her last quarter’s salary. 
The supply was not equal to the demand, it was evident. 
But she was by no means overpowered. She was dashed, 
but not despairing. Of course, she had not expected to 
launch into such a reckless piece of expenditure all at 
once, she had only thought she might attain her modest 
ambition In the due course of time, and she thought so 
yet. She crammed bills and bank-note back into the 
purse with serene cheerfulness and shut it with a little 
snap of the clasp. 

“ I will begin to save up,” she said, and I will per- 
suade Phil to help me. We can surely do it between 
us, and then we will take her somewhere and let her 
have her first experience of modern society. What a 
sensation she would create in the camps of the Philis- 
tines !” 

She descended into the kitchen after this, appearing 
in those lower regions in the full glory of apron and 
rolled-up sleeves, greatly to the delight of the youthful 
maid-of-all-work, who, being feeble of intellect and fond 
of society, regarded the prospect of spending the afternoon 
with her as a source of absolute rejoicing. The “ Sepoy,” 
as she was familiarly designated by the family, was 
strongly attached to Dolly, as, indeed, she was attached 
to every other member of the household. The truth 
was, that the usefulness of the Sepoy (whose baptismal 
name was Belinda) was rather an agreeable fiction than 
a well-established fact. She had been adopted as a mat- 
ter of gharity, and it was charity rather than any recog- 
nised brilliance of parts which caused her to be retained. 
Phil had picked her up on the streets one night in time 
gone by, and had brought her home principally because 
her rags were soaked and she had asserted that she had 


IN WHICH THE TRAIN IS LAW. 


65 


nowhere to go for shelter, and partly, it must be con- 
fessed, because she was a curiosity. And having taken 
her in nobody was sternly practical enough to turn her 
out to face her fate again, so she stayed, and, in time, 
became an ornament to their small society. Nobody 
taught her anything in particular about household econ- 
omy, because nobody knew anything particular to teach 
her. It was understood that she was to do what she 
could, and that what she could not do should be shared 
among them. She could fetch and carry, execute small 
commissions, manage the drudgery and answer the door, 
when she was presentable, which was not often ; indeed, 
this last duty had ceased to devolve upon her, after she 
had once confronted Lady Augusta with personal adorn- 
ments so remarkable as to strike that august lady dumb 
and rigid with indignation upon the threshold, and cause 
her, when she recovered herself, to stonily but irately 
demand an explanation of the gratuitous insult she con- 
sidered had been offered her. Belinda’s place was in 
the kitchen, after this, and to these regions she usually 
confined herself, happily vigorous in the discharge of 
her daily duties ecstatically delighted by any exhibition 
of the family favor. She was very fond of Dolly and 
hailed the approach of her days of freedom with secret 
demonstrations of joy. She hoarded the simple presents 
of finery given her by that young person with care and 
ceremony, and regarded them in the light of sacred talis- 
mans. A subtle something in her dwarfed, feeble, 
starved-out nature was stirred, it may be, by the sight 
of the girl’s life and brightness ; and, apart from this, it 
would not have been like Dolly Crewe if she had not 
sympathized, half unconsciously, half because she was 
constitutionally sympathetic, with even this poor stray. 
5 


66 


DOLLY, 


If she had been of a more practical turn of mind, or had 
lived a more practical life, in all probability she would 
have taken Belinda in hand and attacked the work of 
training her with laudable persistence ; but, as it was, 
private misgivings as to the strength of her own domes- 
tic accomplishments caused her to confine herself to 
more modest achievements. She could encourage her 
at least — and encourage her she did with divers good- 
natured speeches and a leniency of demeanor which took 
the admiring Sepoy by storm. 

Saturday became a white day in the eyes of Belinda, 
because, being a holiday, it left Dolly at liberty to 
descend into the kitchen and apply herself to the study 
of cookery as a science, with much agreeable bustle and 
a pleasant display of high spirit and enjoyment of the 
novelty of her position. She had her own innocent rea- 
sons for wishing to become a proficient in the art, and if 
her efforts were not always crowned with success, the 
appearance of her handiwork upon the table on the occar 
sion of the Sunday’s dinner never disturbed the family 
equilibrium, principally, perhaps, because the family 
digestion was unimpaired. They might be jocose, they 
had been ironical, but they were never severe, and they 
always addressed themselves to the occasionally arduous 
task of disposing of the viands with an indifference to 
consequences which nothing could disturb. 

“ One cannot possibly be married without knowing 
something of cookery,” Dolly had announced oracularly; 
“ and one cannot gain a knowledge of it without practis- 
ing, so I am going to practise. You are none of you 
dyspeptic, thank goodness, so you can stand it. The 
only risk we run is that Tod might get hold of a piece of 


IN WHICH THE TRAIN IS LAW. 


67 


the pastry and be cut off in the bloom of his youth; but 
we must keep a strict watch upon him.” 

And she purchased a cookery book and commenced 
operations, and held to her resolve with Spartan firmness, 
encouraged by private but enthusiastic bursts of com- 
mendation from Griffith, who, finding her out, read the 
tender meaning of the fanciful seeming whim, and was so 
touched thereby that the mere sight of her in her non- 
sensical little affectation of working paraphernalia raised 
him to a seventh heaven of bliss. 

When she made her entrance into the kitchen on this 
occasion, and began to bustle about in search for her 
apron, Belinda, who was on her knees polishing the grate 
amidst a formidable display of rags and brushes, paused 
to take breath and look at her admiringly. 

“Are yer goin’ to make yer pies ’n things. Miss Dolly?” 
she asked. “Which, if ye are, yer apern’s in the left ’and 
dror.” 

“ So it is,” said Dolly. “Thank you. Now where is 
the cookery book ?” 

“ Left ’and dror agin,” announced Belinda, with a faint 
grin. “ I alius puts it there.” 

Whereupon Dolly, making industrious search for it, 
found it, and applied herself to a deep study of it, resting 
her white elbows on the dresser, and looking as if she 
had been suddenly called upon to master its contents or 
be led to the stake. She could not help being intense 
and in earnest even over this everyday problem of pies 
and puddings. 

“ Fricasse ?” she murmured. “ Fricasse was a failure, 
so was mock-turtle soup; it looked discouraging, and 
the fat would swim about in a way that attracted atten- 
tion. Croquettes were not so bad, though they were a 


68 


DOLLY. 


little stringy; but beef d la mode was positively unpleasant. 
Jugged hare did very well, but oyster pates were dubious. 
Veal pie Griffith liked.” 

“ There’s somebody a-ringin’ at the door-bell,” said 
Belinda, breaking in upon her. “ He’s rung twict, which 
I can go, mum, if I aint got no smuts.” 

Dolly looked up from her book. 

“Some one is going now, I think,” she said. “ I hope 
it isn’t a visitor,” listening attentively. 

But it was a visitor, unfortunately. In a few minutes 
Mollie came in studiously perusing a card she held m 
her hand. 

“Ralph,” she proclaimed, coming, forward slowly. 
“ Ralph Gowan. It’s Lady Augusta’s gentleman, Dolly, 
and he wants to see you.” 

Dolly took the card and looked at it, giving her shoul- 
ders a tiny shrug of surprise. 

“ He has not waited long,” she said ; “ and it is rather 
inconvenient, but it can’t be helped. I suppose I shall 
have to run up-stairs and present him to Phil.” 

She untied her apron, drew down her sleeves, settled 
the bit of ribbon at her throat, and in three minutes 
opened the parlor door and greeted her visitor, looking 
quite as much in the right place as she had done the 
night before in the white merino. 

“I am very glad to see you,” she said, shaking hands with 
him, “and I am sure Phil will be, too. He is always glad 
to see people, and just now you will be doubly welcome, 
because he has a new picture to talk about. Will you 
come into the studio or shall I bring him here ? I think 
it had better be the studio at once, because you will be 
sure to drift there in the end — visitors always do.” 

“The studio let it be, if you please,” answered Gowan, 


IN WHICH THE TRAIN IS LAID. 


69 


wondering, just as he had done the night before, at the 
indescribable something in her manner which was so novel 
because it was so utterly free from any ghost of affecta- 
tion. It would have been a difficult matter to tell her 
that he had not come for any other reason than to see 
herself again, and yet this really was the case. 

But his rather fanciful tase found Phil a novelty also 
when she led him into the studio and presented him to 
that young man, who was lying upon a. couch with a 
segar in his mouth. 

Phil had something of the same cool friendliness of 
deportment, and being used to the unexpected advent 
of guests at all hours, was quite ready to welcome him. 
He had the same faculty for making noticeable speeches, 
too, and was amiable though languid and debonnaire^ and 
by no means prone to ceremony. In ten minutes after 
he had entered the room Ralph Gowan understood as by 
magic, that little as the world was to these people, they 
had, in their Bohemian fashion, learned through sheer 
tact to comprehend and tolerate its weaknesses; He ex- 
amined the pictures on the walls and in the folios, and 
now and then found himself roused into something more 
than ordinary admiration. But he was disappointed in 
one thing. He failed in accomplishing the object of his 
visit. 

After she had seen that Phil and the paintings occu- 
pied his attention to some extent, Dolly left them. 

“ I vMs beginning to think about pies and puddings 
when you came,” she said, ''and I must go back to them. 
Saturday is the only day Lady Augusta leaves me, in 
which to improve in branches of domestic usefulness,” 
with an iniquitous imitation of her ladyship’s manner. 

After which she went down to the kitchen again and 


70 


DOLLY. 


plunged into culinary detail with renewed vigor, think- 
ing of the six-roomed house in the suburbs and the 
green sofa which was to fit into the alcove in the front 
parlor, growing quite happy over the mental picture, in 
blissful unconsciousness of the fact that a train had been 
that day laid, and that a spark would be applied that 
very night through the medium of a simple observation 
made by Phil to her lover. 

Gowan was here this morning, Grif, and Dolly brought 
him into the studio. He’s not a bad sort of fellow for a 
Philistine, and he seems to know something about pic- 
tures. I shouldn’t be surprised if he came again.” 


A LILY OF THE FIELD. 


71 


CHAPTER IV. 

A LILY OF THE FIELD. 

T his was the significant and poetic appellation which 
at once attached itself to Ralph Gowan after his 
first visit to the studio 'in Bloomsbury Place, and, as 
might have been expected, it was a fancy of Dolly’s, the 
affixing of significant titles being her special forte. 

‘‘The lilies of the field,” she observed, astutely, “ are a 
distinct class. They toil not neither do they spin, and 
yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of 
these. Yes, my young friends, Mr. Ralph Gowan is a 
lily of the field.” 

And she was not very far wrong. Twenty-seven years 
before Mr. Ralph Gowan had been presented to an 
extended circle of admiring friends as the sole heir to a 
fortune large enough to have satisfied the ambitions of 
half a dozen heirs of commonly-moderate aspirations, 
and from that time forward his lines had continually 
fallen in pleasant placds. As a boy he had been hand- 
some, attractive and thoroughbred, and consequently 
popular, his good looks made him a favorite with women, 
his good fortune with men, his friends were rather proud 
of him and his enemies were powerless against him, he 
found it easy to be amiable because no obstacles to amia- 
bility lay in his path, and altogether he regarded exist- 
ence as a comfortable enough affair. 


72 


DOLLY. 


At school his fellows had liked him just as boys as 
well as men are apt to like fortunate people, and as he 
had grown older he had always found himself something 
of a favorite, it may be for something of the same rea- 
son. But being, happily, a gentleman by nature, he had 
not been much spoiled by the general adulation. Hav- 
ing been born to it, he carried himself easily through it, 
scarcely recognising the presence of what would have 
been patent to men less used to popularity. He was fond 
of travelling, and so had amused himself by comfortably 
arranging uncomfortable journeys and exploring pleas- 
antly those parts of the earth which to ordinary tourists 
would appear unattainable. 

He was not an ordinary young man, upon the whole, 
which was evinced by his making no attempt to write a 
book of travels, though he might safely have done so, 
and really, upon the whole, “lily of the field” though 
chance had made him, he was neither useless nor pur- 
poseless, and rather deserved his good luck than other- 
wise. 

Perhaps it was because he was not an ordinary indi- 
vidual that his fancy was rather taken by the glimpse he 
had caught of life in Vagabondia. It was his first glimpse 
of the inner workings of such a life, and its novelty in- 
terested him. A girl of twenty who received attention 
and admiration in an enjoyable matter-of-fact manner, as 
if she was used to and neither over nor undervalued it, 
who could make coffee and conversation bearable and 
even exciting, who could hold her own against patronage 
and slights, and be as piquant and self-possessed at home 
as in society, who could be dazzling at night and charm- 
ing in the morning, was novelty enough in herself to 


A LILT OF. THE FIELD. 


73 


make Bloomsbury Place attractive, even at its dingiest, 
and there were other attractions aside from this one. 

Phil in the studio, taking life philosophically, and 
regarding the world and society in general, with sublime 
and amiable tolerance, was as unique in his way as Dolly 
was in hers ; his handsome girl-wife, who had come in to 
them with her handsome child in her arms, was unique 
also ; Mollie h,erself, who had opened the door and quite 
startled him with the mere sight of her face — well, the 
fact was that Mollie had impressed him as she impressed 
everybody. And he was quite observant enough to see 
the odd element of matter-of-fact, half jocular affection 
that bound them one to another; he could not help see- 
ing it, and it almost touched him. They were not a 
sentimental assembly upon the whole, but they were 
wondrously fond of each other in a style peculiar to 
themselves, and wondrously ready to unite in any cause 
which was the cause of the common weal. The family 
habit of taking existence easily and regarding misfortunes 
from a serenely philosophical standpoint, amused Ralph 
Gowan intensely. It had spiced Dolly’s conversation, 
and it spiced Phil’s; indeed, it showed itself in more 
than words. They had banded themselves against una- 
voidable tribulation, and it could not fail to be beautifully 
patent to the far-seeing mind that, taking all things 
together, tribulation had the worst of it. 

They were an artistic sort of study, Ralph Gowan 
found, and so, in his character of a “lily of the field,” he 
fell into the habit of studying them, as an amusement at 
first, afterwards because his liking for them became 
friendly and sincere. 

It was an easy matter to call again after the first visit — 
people always did call again at Bloomsbury Place, and 


74 


DOLLY. 


Ralph Gowan was no exception to the rule. He met 
Phil in the city, and sauntered home with him to discuss 
art and look at his work; he invited him to first-class, 
little dinners, and introduced him to one or two men 
worth knowing; in short, it was not long before the two 
were actually fond of each other in undemonstrative man 
fashion. The studio was the sort of place Gowan liked 
to drop into when time hung heavily on his hands, and 
consequently hardly a week passed without his having at 
least once or twice dropped into it to sit among the half 
dozen of Phil’s fellow Bohemians, who were also fond of 
dropping in as the young man sat at his easel, some- 
times furiously at work, sometimes tranquilly loitering 
over the finishing touches of a picture. They were 
good-natured, jovial fellows, too, these Bohemian visit- 
ors, though they were more frequently than not highly 
scented with the odor of inferior tobacco of a cheap 
kind, and rarely made an ostentatious display in the 
matter of costume, or were conspicuously faultless in 
the matter of linen ; they failed to patronize the hair- 
dresser, and were prone to various convivialities, but they 
were neither vicious nor actually vulgar, and they were 
singularly faithful to their friendships for each other. 
They were all fond of Phil, and accordingly fraternized 
at once with his new friend, adopting him into their 
circle with the ease of manner and freedom of sentiment 
which seemed the chief characteristic of their class ; and 
they took to him all the more kindly because, amateur 
though he was, he shared many of their enthusiasms. 

Of course he did not always see Dolly when he went. 
During every other day of the week but Saturday she 
spent her time from nine in the morning until five in the 
afternoon in the rather depressing atmosphere of the 


A LILY OF THE FIELD. 


75 


Bilberry school-room. She vigorously assaulted the 
foundations of Lindley Murray, and attacked the rules 
of arithmetic; she taught Phemie French, and made 
despairing but continuous efforts at “finishing” her in 
music. But poor Phemie was not easily “finished,” and 
hung somewhat heavily upon the hands of her youthful 
instructress ; still, she was affectionate, if weak-minded, 
and so Dolly managed to retain her good spirits. 

“I believe they are all fond of me in their way,” she 
said to Griffith; “all the children, I mean; and that is 
something to be thankful for.” 

“They couldn’t help being fond of you,” returned the 
young man. “Did any human being ever know you 
without being fond of you ?” 

“Yes,” said Dolly; “ Lady Augusta knows me ; and I 
do not think — no,” with a cheerfully resigned shake of 
the head, which did not exactly express deep regret or 
contrition, “I really do not think Lady Augusta is what 
you might call overwhelmed with the strength of her 
attachment for me.” 

“Oh, Lady Augusta!” said Griffith. “Confound Lady 
Augusta 1” 

Griffith was one of the very few people who did not 
like Ralph Gowan, and perhaps charitably inclined per- 
sons will be half inclined to excuse his weakness. It 
was rather trying, it must be admitted, for a desponding 
young man rather under stress of weather, so to speak, 
to find himself thrown into sharp contrast with an indi- 
vidual who had sailed in smooth waters all his life, and 
to whom a ripple would have been a by no means 
unpleasant excitement ; it was rather chafing to con- 
stantly encounter this favorite of fortune in the best of 
humors, because he had nothing to irritate him ; thor- 


76 


DOLLY. 


oughbred, unruffled and debonnaire because he had noth- 
ing of pain or privation to face ; handsome, well- dressed, 
and at ease, because his income and his tastes balanced 
against each other accommodatingly. Human nature 
rose up and battled in the Vagabondian breast; there 
were times when, for the privilege of administering 
severe corporeal chastisement to Ralph Gowan, Griffith 
would have sacrificed his modest salary with a Christian 
fortitude and resignation beautiful to behold. To see 
hirn sitting in one of the faded padded chairs, roused all 
his ire, and his consciousness of his own weakness made 
the matter worse ; to see him talking to Dolly, and see 
her making brisk little jokes for his amusement, was 
worse still, and drove him so frantic that more than once 
he had turned quite pale in his secret frenzy of despair 
and jealousy, and had quite frightened the girl, though 
he was wise enough to keep his secret to himself. It 
was plain enough that Gowan admired Dolly, but other 
men had admired her before ; the sting of it was that 
this fellow, with his cool airs and graces and tantalizing 
repose of manner, had no need to hold back if he could 
win her. There would be no need for him to plan, and 
pinch, and despair ; no need for faltering over odd shil- 
lings and calculating odd pence ; he could marry her in 
an hour if she cared for him, and he could surround her 
with luxuries, and dress her like a queen, and make her 
happy, as she deserved to be. And then the poor fel- 
low’s heart would beat fiercely, and the very blood would 
tremble in his veins, at the mere thought of giving her- 
up. 

One night after they had been sitting together, and 
Gowan had just left the room with Phil, Dolly glanced 
up from her work and saw her lover looking at her with 


A LILY OF THE FIELD. 77 

a face so pale and wretched that she was thrown into an 
actual little passion of fear. 

She tossed her work away in a second, and making- 
one of her little rushes at him, was caught in his arms 
and half suffocated. She knew the instant she caught 
sight of his face what he was suffering, though perhaps 
she did not know the worst. 

Oh, why will you ?” she cried out, in tears, all at 
once. It is cruel! You are as pale as death, and I 
know — I know so well what it means.” 

“ Tell me you will never forget what we have been to 
each other,” he said, when he could speak; “tell me you 
don’t care for that fellow — tell me you love me, Dolly, 
tell me you love me.” 

She did not hesitate a moment ; she had never flirted 
with Griffith in her life, and she knew him too well to 
try him when he wore that desperate, feverish look of 
longing in his eyes. She burst into an impetuous sob, 
and clung to him with both hands. 

“ I love you with all my soul,” she said. “ I will n^ver 
let you give me up; and, as to forgetting, I might die, 
but I could never forget. Care for Ralph Gowan! I 
you^ Griffith, I \ovq yoii!" 

“And you don’t regret?” he said, piteously. “Oh, 
Dolly, just think of what he could give you ; and then 
think of our hopeless dreams about miserable six-roomed 
houses and wretched cheap furniture.” 

“ You will make me hate him,” cried Dolly, her gust 
of love and pity making her quite fierce in a small way. 
“ I don’t want anything anybody could give me. I only 
want you, dear old fellow — darling old fellow,” holding 
him fast, as if she would never let him go, and shedding 
an illogical shower of impassioned, tender tears. “ Oh, 


78 


DOLLY. 


my darling, only wait until I am your own wife, and see 
how happy I will be, and how happy I will make you — 
for I cajt make you happy — and see how I will work in 
our little home for your sake, and how content I will be 
with a little. Oh, what must I do to show you how I 
love you ! Do you think I could have cared for Ralph 
Gowan all these years as I have cared for you? No in- 
deed, but I shall care for you for ever, and I would wait 
for you a thousmid years if I might only be your wife, 
and die in your arms at the end of it,” 

And she believed every word she said, too, and would 
have been willing to lay down her young life to prove it, 
extravagant as it may all sound to the discreet. And 
she quite believed, too, that she could never have so loved 
any other man than this unlucky, jealous, tempestuous 
one ; but I will take the liberty of saying that this was a 
mistake, for being an impassioned, heart-ruled, unworldly 
young person, it is quite likely that if Ralph Gowan 
had stood in Mr. Griffith Donne’s not exactly water- 
tight shoes, she would have clung to him quite as faith- 
fully, and believed in his perfections quite as implicitly, 
and quite ’as scornfully would have depreciated the merits 
of his rival; but chance had arranged the matter for her 
years before, and so Mr. Griffith was the hero. 

“ Ralph Gowan !” she flung out. “ What is Ralph 
Ggwan, or any other man on earth to me ? Did I love 
him before I knew what love was, and scarcely under- 
stood my own heart ? Did I grow into a woman loving 
him and clinging to him and dreaming about him ? Have 
I ever had any troubles in common with him ? Did we 
grow up together, and tell each other all our thoughts 
and help each other to bear things ? Let him travel in 
the East, if he likes” — with high and rather inconsistent 


A LILY OF THE FIELD. 


79 


disdain — and let him have ten thousand a year, if he 
will — a hundred thousand millions a year wouldn’t buy 
me from you — my own !” In another burst, “ Let him 
ride in his carriage, if he chooses ” — rather, as if such a 
course would imply the most degraded weakness ; but, 
as I have said before, she was illogical, if affectionate — 
“ Let him ride in his carriage. I would rather walk bare- 
foot through the world with you than ride in a hundred 
carriages, if every one of them was lined with diamonds 
and studded with pearls.” 

There was the true flavor of Vagabondia’s indiscre- 
tion and want of forethought in this, I grant you ; but 
such speeches as these were deplorably characteristic of 
Dolly Crewe’s mode of comforting her lover in his dark 
moods; at least, she was sincere — and sincerity will ex- 
cuse many touches of extravagance. And, as to Grifflth, 
every touch of loving, foolish rhapsody dropped upon his 
heart like dew from heaven, filling him with rapture and 
drawing him nearer to her than before. 

“ But,” he objected — a rather weak objection — offered 
rather weakly, because he was so full of renewed confi- 
dence and bliss ; “ but he is a handsomer fellow than I 
am, Dolly, and it must be confessed, he has good taste.” 

“ Handsomer !” echoed Dolly. “ What do I care about 
his beauty. He isn’t — that is where he fails to come 
up to the mark. And as to his good taste, do you sup- 
pose for a second that I could ever admire the most im- 
posing ‘ get-up’ by Poole, as I love this threadbare coat 
of yours, that I have laid my cheek against for the last 
three years.” And she actually bent down all at once 
and kissed the shabby sleeve. 

“No,” she said, looking up the next minute with her 
eyes as bright as stars. “ We have been given to each 


80 


DOLLY. , 


other, that is it. It wasn’t chance, it was something 
higher. We needed each other, and a higher power 
than Fate bound us together, and it was a power that 
isn’t cruel enough to separate us now, after all these 
years have woven our lives in one chord, and drawn 
our hearts close, and taught us how to comfort and bear 
with each other. I was given to you because I could 
help to make your life brighter — and you were given to 
me because you could help to brighten mine, and God 
will never part us so long as we are true.” 

The coat sleeve came into requisition again then, as it 
often did. Her little enthusiastic burst ended in a gush 
of heart-full tears, and she hid her face on the coat sleeve 
until they were shed ; Griffith in the meantime touch- 
ing her partly-bent head caressingly with his hand, but 
remaining silent because he could not trust himself to 
speak. 

But she became quieter at last, and got over it so far 
as to look up and smile in her own irresistible style. 

“ I couldn’t give up the six-roomed house and the 
green sofa, Griffith,” she said. '‘They are like a great 
many other things — the more I don’t get them the more 
I want them. And the long winter evenings we are to 
spend together, when you are to read and I am to sew^ 
and we are both to be blissfully happy. I couldn’t give 
those up on any account. And how could I bear to see 
Ralph Gowan, or any one else, seated in the orthodox 
arm-chair?” 

The very idea of this latter calamity occurring crushed 
Griffith completely. The long winter evenings they were 
to spend together were such a pleasant legend. Scarcely 
a day passed without his drawing a mental picture of the 
room which was to be their parlor, and of the fireside 


A LILY OF THE FIELD. 


81 


Dolly was to adorn. It required only a slight effort of 
imagination to picture her shining in the tiny room whose 
door closed upon an outside world of struggling and an 
inside world of love and hope and trust. He imagined 
Dolly under a variety of circumstances, but nothing 
pleased and touched him so tenderly as this fireside pic- 
ture — its ideal warmth and glow, and its poetic placing 
of Dolly as his wife sitting near to him with her smiles 
and winsome ways and looks — his own, at last, unshared 
by any outsiders. Giving that long-cherished fancy up 
would have killed him, if he could have borne all the rest. 
And while these two experienced the recorded fluctua- 
tions of their romance in private, Ralph Gowan had fol- 
lowed Phil into the studio. 

They found Mollie there on going into the room — and, 
really, Mollie lying upon the sofa asleep, with her brown 
head upon a big soft purple cushion, was quite worthy a 
second glance. She had been rather overpowered in the 
parlor by the presence of Ralph Gowan, and knowing 
there was a fire in the studio, and a couch drawn near it, 
she had retired there, and appropriating a pile of cushions, 
had dropped asleep, and lay there curled up among them. 

Seeing her, Gowan found himself smiling faintly. Mol- 
lie amused him just as she amused Dolly. It was so dif- 
ficult a matter to assign her any settled position in the 
world. She was taller than the other girls, and far larger 
and more statuesque ; indeed there were moments when 
she seemed to be almost imposing in presence, but this 
only rendered her still more a charming incongruity. 
She might have carried herself like a royal princess, but 
she blushed up to the tips of her lovely ears at a* glance, 
and was otherwise as innocently awkward as a beauty 
may be. She was not fond of strangers either, and gen- 
6 


82 


DOLLY. 


erally lapsed into silence when spoken to. Public admi- 
ration only disconcerted her, and made her poyt, and 
the unceremonious but friendly compliments of Phil’s 
brethren in art were her special grievance. 

“They stare at me, and stare at me, and stare at me,” 
she complained, pettishly, to Dolly, “and some of them 
say things to me. I wish they would attend to their pic- 
tures and leave me alone.” 

But she had never evinced any particular dislike to 
Ralph Gowan. She was overpowered by a secret sense 
of his vast superiority to the generality of mankind, but 
she rather admired him, upon the whole. She liked to 
hear him talk to Dolly, and she approved of his style. 

It was such a novel sort of thing to meet with a man who 
was neither shabby nor vulgar, and whose clothes seemed 
made for him and worn with a grace. He was handsome, 
too, and witty and polite, and his cool, comfortable man- 
ner reminded her vaguely of Dolly’s own. So she used 
to sit and listen to the two as they chatted, and the end 
of the matter was that her guileless admiration of Dolly’s 
eligible Philistine became pretty thoroughly established. 

When the sound of advancing footsteps roused her 
from her nap she woke with great tranquillity, and sat 
up rubbing her drowsy eyes serenely for a minute or so 
before she discovered that Phil had a companion. But 
when she did discover that such was the fact she blushed , 
all over and looked up at Ralph Gowan in some naive i 
distress. ; 

“ I didn’t know any one was coming,” she said, “and I j 
was so comfortable that I fell asleep. It was the cushions, j 
I think.’’ 

“I dare say it was,” answered Gowan, regarding her 
sleep-flushed cheeks and exquisite eyes with the pleasure 


A LILY OF THE FIELD, 


83 


he always felt in any beauty, animate or inanimate. 

May I sit here, Mollie?’^ and then he looked at her again 
and decided that he was quite right in speaking to her as 
he would have spoken to a child, because she was such a 
very child. 

“By me, on the sofa ?” she answered. “Oh, yes.” 

“Are you going to talk business with Phil ?” she 
asked him next, “ or may I stay here ? Griffith and 
Dolly won’t want me in the parlor and I don’t want to go 
into the kitchen ?” 

“I have no doubt you may stay here,” he said, quite 
seriously, “but why won’t they want you in the parlor?” 

“They never want anybody,” astutely. “I dare say 
they are making love — they generally are.” 

“ Making love,” he repeated. “Ah, indeed !” and for 
the next few minutes was so absorbed in thought that 
pretty Mollie was quite forgotten. 

Making love were they — this shabby, rather unamiable 
young man ‘ and the elder Miss Crewe ? It sounded 
rather like nonsense to Ralph Gowan, but it was not 
exactly a pleasant sort of thing to think about. It is not 
to be supposed that he himself was very desperately in 
love with Dolly just yet, but it must be admitted he 
admired her very decidedly. Beauty as Mollie was, he 
scarcely gave her a glance when Dolly was in the room — 
he recognised the beauty, but it did not enslave him, it did 
not even attract him as Dolly’s imperfect charms did. 
And perhaps he had his own ideas of what Dolly’s love- 
making would be, of the spice and variety which would 
form its chief characteristics, and of the little bursts of 
warmth and affection that would render it delightful. 
It was not soothing to think of all this being lavished on 
a shabby young man who was not always urbane in 


84 


DOLLY. 


demeanor and who stubbornly objected to being propi- 
tiated by politeness. 

As was very natural, Mr. Ralph Gowan did not admire 
Mr. Griffith Donne enthusiastically. In his visits to 
Bloomsbury Place, finding an ill-dressed young man 
whose position in the household he could not under- 
stand, he began by treating him with good-natured 
suavity, being ready enough to make friends with him, 
as he had made friends with the rest of Phil’s com- 
patriots. But influenced by certain objections to certain 
things, Griffith was not to be treated suavely, he rather 
resented it, upon the whole, and became irascible under 
it, with his usual indiscretion. There was no good reason 
for his resenting it, but resent it he did, as openly as he 
could, without being an absolute savage and attracting 
attention. The weakness of such a line of conduct is 
glaringly patent, of course, to the well-regulated mind, 
but then Mr. Griffith Donne’s mind was not well regu- 
lated, and he was, on the contrary, a very hot-headed, 
undisciplined young man, and rabidly sensitive to his own 
misfortunes and shabbiness, and singularly infatuated in 
his passion for the object of his enemy’s admiration. 
But Ralph Gowan could afford to be tolerant; in the 
little matter of position he was secure, he had never been 
slighted or patronized in his life, and so had no fiery 
shrinkings from such fiery ordeal ; he was not disturbed 
by any bitter pang of jealousy as yet, and so, while he 
could not understand Griffith’s restless anxiety to resent 
his presence, could still tolerate it and keep cool. Still, 
as might be expected, he rather underrated his antag- 
onist. Seeing him only in this one unavoidably unfavor- 
able light, he regarded him simply as a rather ill-bred, or, 
at least, aggressively-inclined individual, whose temper • 


A LILY OF THE FIELD. 


85 


and tone of mind might reasonably be objected to. 
Once or twice he had even felt his own blood rise at 
some implied ignoring of himself, but really he was far 
the more urbane and well disposed of the twd', '‘but 
whether he was to be highly lauded for his forbearance, 
or whether, while lauding him, it would not be as well • 
to think as charitably as possible of his enemy, is a mat- 
ter for charity to decide. 

It had not occurred to him before that Griffith’s fre- 
quent and unceremonious visits implied anything very 
serious. There were so many free-and-easy visitors at 
the house, and they all so plainly cultivated Dolly, if they 
did not make actual love to her ; and really outsiders 
would hardly have been impressed with her deportment 
toward her betrothed. She was not prone to exhibit her 
preference sentimentally in public, though she was affec- 
tionate enough in a piquant way when they found them- 
selves alone. So Ralph Gowan had been deceived — and 
so he was deceived still. 

“This sort of fellow,” as he mentally put it with uncon- 
scious high-handedness, was not the man to make such a 
woman happy, however ready she was to bear with him. 

It was just such men as he was, who, when the novelty 
of possession wore off, deteriorated into tyrannical, irrit- 
able husbands, and were not too well bred in their man- 
ners. So he became reflective and silent, when Mollie 
said that the two were “ making love.” 

But, at last, it occurred to him that even to Mollie his 
pre-occupation might appear singular, and he roused him- 
self accordingly. 

“Making love!” he said again. “Blissful occupation ! 

I wonder how they do it. Do you know, Mollie ?” 

Mollie looked at him with a serene freedom from scru- 


86 


DOLLY. 


pies or embarrassment at the conversation taking such a 
turn, which told its own story. 

Yes,” she said. “ They talk, you know, and say things 
to each other just as other people do, and he kisses her 
sometimes. I know that,” with a decided air; “because 
• I have seen him do it.” 

“ Cool enough, that, upon my word,” was her mental 
questioner’s comment; “and not unpleasant for Donne; 
but hardly significant of a fastidious taste, if it is a public 
exhibition.” “Ah, indeed!” he said, aloud. 

“They have been engaged so long, you know,” volun- 
teered Mollie. 

“ Singularly enough, I did not know, Mollie,” he replied. 
“Are you sure yourself?” 

“ Oh, yes I” exclaimed Mollie, opening her eyes. “ I 
thought everybody knew that. They have been engaged 
ever since they were ever so much younger. Dolly was 
only fifteen, and Griffith was only eighteen, when they first 
fell in love.” 

“And they have been engaged ever since?” said Gowan, 
his curiosity getting decidedly the better of him. 

“Yes, and would have been married long ago, if Grif- 
fith could have got into something; or if old Flynn would 
have raised his- salary. He has only a hundred a year,” 
— with unabashed frankness — “and, of course, they 
couldn’t be married on that, so they are obliged to wait. 
A hundred and fifty would do, Dolly says — but then 
they haven’t got a hundred and fifty.” 

Ralph Gowan was meanly conscious of not being 
overpowered with regret on hearing this latter statement 
of facts. And yet he was by no means devoid of gen- 
erous impulse. He was quite honest, however deeply 
he might be mistaken, in deciding that it would be an 


A LILY OF THE FIELD. 


87 


unfortunate thing for Dolly if she married Griffith 
Donne. He thought he was right, and certainly if there 
had been no more good in his rival than he himself had 
seen on the surface, he would not have been far wrong ; 
but as it was he was unconsciously very far wrong in- 
deed. He ran into the almost excusable extreme of 
condemning Griffith upon circumstantial evidence. Un- 
fair advantage had been taken of Dolly, he told himself. 
She had engaged herself before she knew her own heart, 
and was true to her lover because it was not in her na- 
ture to be false. Besides, what right has a man with a 
hundred a year to bind any woman to the prospect of 
the life of narrow economies and privations such an in- 
come would necessarily entail ? And forthwith his admi- 
ration of Dolly became touched with pity, and increased 
fourfold. vS'/^^^vas unselfish, at least, whatever her affi- 
anced might be. Poor little soul ! (It is a circumstance 
worthy of note, because illustrative of the blindness of 
human nature, that at this very moment Miss Dorothea 
Crewe was enjoying her quiet tUe-a-tUe with her lover 
wondrously, and would not have changed places with 
any young lady in the kingdom upon any consideration 
whatever.) 

It is not at all to be wondered at that, in the absence 
of other entertainment, Gowan drifted into a confidential 
chat with Mollie. The man who could wholly have re- 
sisted the temptation to cultivate her would have been 
more than human. She was the sort of girl, in fact, few 
people could have remained entirely indifferent to. Her 
naivete was as novel as her beauty, and her weakness, so 
to speak, was her strength. Gowan found it so at least, 
but stTll it . must be confessed that Dolly was the chief 
subject of their conversation. 


88 


DOLLY. 


“You are very fond of your sister?” he said to the 
child. 

Mollie nodded, 

“ Yes,” she said, “ I am very fond of her. We are all 
very fond of her. Dolly’s the clever one of the family, 
next to Phil. She isn’t afraid of anybody, and things 
don’t upset her. I wish I was like her. You ought to 
see her talk to Lady Augusta. I believe she is the only 
person in the world Lady Augusta can’t patronize, and 
she is always trying to snub her just because she is so 
cool. But it never troubles Dolly. I have seen her sit 
and smile and talk in her quiet way until Lady Augusta 
could do nothing but sit still and stare at her as if she 
was choked, with her bonnet strings actually trembling.” 

Gowan laughed. He could imagine the effect pro- 
duced so well, and it was so easy to picture Dolly smil- 
ing up in the face of her gaunt patroness in that iniqui- 
tous way of hers, and all the time favoring her with a 
shower of beautiful little stabs, rendered pointed 'by the 
very essence of artfulness.' He decided that upon the 
whole Lady Augusta was somewhat to be pitied. 

“ Dolly says,” proceeded Mollie, “ that she would like 
to be a beauty; but if I was like her I shouldn’t care 
about being a beauty.” 

“ Ah !” said Gowan, unable to resist the temptation to 
try with a fine speech. “ Ah ! it is all very well for you 
to talk about not caring to be a beauty.” 

It did not occur to him for an instant that it was indis- 
creet to say such a thing to her. He only meant it for 
a jest, and nine girls out of ten even at sixteen years 
old would have understood his languid air of grandilo- 
quence in an instant. But Mollie at sixteen was ex- 


A LILY OF THE FIELD. 


89 


tremely liberal-minded, and almost Arcadian in her sim- 
plicity of thought and demeanor. 

Her brown eyes flew wide open, and for a minute she 
stared at him with mingled amazement and questioning. 

^‘Me!” she said, ignoring all given rules of propriety 
of speech. 

“ Yes, you,” answered Gowan, smiling, and looking 
down at her amusedly. “ I have been paying you a com- 
pliment, Mollie.” 

“Oh!” said Mollie, a queer bewilderment settling on 
her face. But the next instant the quick blood rushed 
to her cheeks, and her eyes fell, and she moved a little 
farther away from him. 

It was the first exciting compliment she had received 
in all her life, and it was the beginning of an era. 


90 


DOLLY, 


CHAPTER V. 

IN WHICH THE PHILISTINES BE UPON US. 

W E are going,” said Dolly to Ralph Gowan, “to 
have a family rejoicing and we should like you to 
join us. We are going to celebrate Mollie’s birthday.” 
“ Thanks,” he answered, “ I shall be delighted.” 

He had heard of these family rejoicings before and he 
was really pleased with the idea of attending one of 
them. They were strictly Vagabondian in their peculi- 
arities, which was one recommendation, and they were en- 
tirely free from the Bilberry element, which was another. 
They were not grand affairs, it is true, and set etiquette 
and the rules of society at open defiance, but they were 
cheerful, at least, and nobody attended them who had 
not previously resolved upon enjoying himself and taking 
kindly to even the most unexpected state of affairs. At 
Bloomsbury Place, Lady Augusta’s “ coffee and conver- 
sation” became “conversation and coffee,” and the con- 
versation came as naturally as the coffee. People who 
had jokes to make made them, and people who had not, 
were exhilarated by the bon-mots of the rest. 

“ Mollie will be seventeen,” said Dolly, “ and it is 
rather a trial to me.” 

Gowan laughed. 

“ Why ?” he asked. 

She shook her head gravely. 


IN WHICH THE PHILISTINES BE UPON US. 91 


In the first place,” she answered, “ it makes me feel 
as if the dust of ages was accumulating in my pathway, 
and in the second, it is not safe for her.” 

“ Why, again ?” he demanded. 

“ She is far too pretty and her knowledge of the world 
is far too limited. She secretly believes in Lord Bur- 
leigh and clings to the poetic memory of King Cophetua 
and the Beggar-maid.” 

“ And you do not ?” 

She held up her small forefinger and shook it at him. 

“ If ever there was an artful little minx,” she said, 
“that Beggar-maid was one. I never believed in her. 
I doubted her before I was twelve. With her eyes cast 
down and her sly tricks ! She did not cast them down 
for nothing# She did it because she had long eyelashes, 
and it was becoming. And it is my impression she knew 
more about the king than she professed to. She had 
studied his character and found it weak. Beggar-maid me 
no beggar-maids ! She was as deep as she was handsome.” 

Of course he laughed again. Her air of severe 
worldly experience and that small warning forefinger 
were simply irresistible in their way. 

“ But, Mollie,” he said, “ with all her belief in Cophe- 
tua, you think there is not enough of the beggar-maid 
element in her character to sustain her under like cir- 
cumstances ?” 

“ If she met a Cophetua,” she answered, “ she would 
open her great eyes at his royal purple in positive de- 
light, and if he caught her looking at him she would 
blush furiously and pout a little, and be so exquisitely 
ashamed of her weakness that she would be ready to 
run away, but if he was artful enough to manage her 
aright, she would believe every word he said, and ro- 


92 


DOLLY. 


mance about him until her head was turned upside down. 
My fear is that some false Cophetua will masquerade for 
her benefit some day. She would never doubt his vera- 
city, and if he asked her to run away with him I actu- 
ally believe she would enjoy the idea. We shall have 
to keep sharp watch upon her.” 

“You never were so troubled about Aim^e?” Gowan 
suggested. 

“Aimee!” she exclaimed, “Aimde has kept us all in 
order and managed our affairs for us ever since she wore 
Berlin wool boots and a coral necklace. She regulated 
the household in her earliest years and will regulate it 
until she dies or somebody marries her, and what we are 
to do then our lares •and penates only know. Aimde! 
Nobody ever had any trouble with Aimde and nobody 
ever will. Mollie is more like me, you see — shares my 
weaknesses and minor sins, and always sees her indis- 
cretions ten minutes too late for redemption. And 
then since she is the youngest, and has been the baby so 
long, we have not been in the habit of regarding her as 
a responsible being exactly. It has struck me once or 
twice that Bloomsbury Place hardly afforded wise train- 
ing to Mollie. Poor little soul!” And a faint shadow 
fell upon her face and rested there for a brief moment. 

But it faded out again as her fits of gravity usually 
faded, and in a few minutes she was giving him such a 
description of Lady Augusta’s unexpected appearance 
upon a like occasion in time past, that he laughed until 
the room echoed, and forgot everything else but her 
inimitable air and the audacious grotesqueness of her 
mimicry. 

It being agreed upon that Mollie’s birthday was to be 
celebrated, the whole household was plunged into pre- 


IN WHICH THE PHILISTINES BE UPON US. 93 

parations at once, though, of course, they were prepara- 
tions upon a small scale and of a strictly private and 
domestic nature. Belinda being promptly attacked with 
inflammation of the throat, which was a chronic weakness 
of hers, Was rather inconveniently, but not at all to the 
surprise of her employers, incapaciated from service, 
and accordingly Dolly’s duties became varied and multi- 
tudinous. But still she was not unprepared for them. 

Sudden inflammation on the part of Belinda was so 
unavoidable a consequence of any approaching demand 
upon her services as to have become proverbial, and the 
swelling of that young person’s “tornsuls,” as she termed 
them, was anticipated as might be anticipated the rising 
of the sun. Not that it was Belinda’s fault, however* 
Belinda’s anxiety to be useful amounted at all times to 
something very nearly approaching a monomania ; the 
fact simply was that, her ailment being chronic, it usually 
evinced itself at inopportune periods. It’s the luck of 
the family,” said Phil. “ We never loved a tree or flower, 
etc.” 

And so Belinda was accepted as an unavoidable incon- 
venience, and was borne with, cheerfully, accordingly. 

It was not expected of her, in fact, that she should 
appear otherwise on the eventful day, than with the reg- 
ulation roll of flannel about her neck. Dolly did not 
expect it of her at least, so she was not. surprised, on 
entering the kitchen in the morning, to be accosted by 
her grimy young handmaiden in the usual form of an- 
nouncement : 

“ Which, if yer please, miss, my tornsuls is swole most 
awful.’* 

“Are they?” said Dolly. “Well, I am very sorry, 
Belinda. It can’t be helped though ; Mollie will have to 


94 


DOLLY. 


run the errands and answer the door-bell, and you must 
stay with me and keep out of the draught. You can 
help a little, I dare say, if you are obliged to stay in the 
kitchen.” 

“Yes, ’m,” said Belinda, and then sidling up to the 
dresser, and rubbing her nose in an abasement of spirit, 
which resulted in, divers startling adornments of that 
already rather highly ornamented feature. “If yer 
please, ’m,” she said, “ I’m very sorry. Miss Dolly. Seems 
like I ain’t never o’ no use to yer ?” 

“Yes, you are,” said Dolly, cheerily, “and you can’t 
help the sore throat, you know. You are a great deal of 
use to me sometimes. See how you save my hands from 
being spoiled ; they wouldn’t be as white as they are if I 
had to polish the grates and build the fires. Never 
mind, you will be better in a day or so. Now for the 
cookery-book.” 

“ I never seen no one like her,” muttered the delighted 
Sepoy, returning to her vigorous cleaning of kettles and 
pans. “ I never seen no one like none on ’em, they’re 
that there good-natured an’ easy on folk.” 

It was a busy day for Dolly, as well as for the rest of 
them, and there was a by-no-means unpleasant excite- 
ment in the atmosphere of business. The cookery, too, 
was a success, the game pat^s being a triumph, the tarts 
beautiful to behold, and the rest of the culinary experi- 
ments so marvellous in their way, that Griffith arriving 
early in the morning, and being led down into the pantry 
to look at them as a preliminary ceremony, professed to 
be struck dumb with admiration. 

“There,” said Dolly, backing up against the wall in 
her excitement, and thrusting her hands very far into her 
apron pockets indeed. “ There ! what do you think of 


m WHICH THE PHILISTINES BE UPON US. 95 

that, sir?” And she stood before him in a perfect glow 
of pretty triumph, her cheeks like roses, her sleeves 
rolled above her dimpled elbows, her hair pushed on her 
forehead, and her general appearance so deliciously busi- 
ness-like and agreeably professional, that the dusts of 
flour that were so prominent a feature in her costume, 
seemed only an additional charm. 

“Think of it,” said Griffith. “It is the most imposing 
display I ever saw in my life. The trimmings upon those 
tarts are positively artistic. You don’t mean to say you 
did it all yourself ?” 

“Yes,” regarding them critically — “ev-er-y bit,” with 
a little nod for every syllable. 

“ Won-der-ful !” with an air of complimentary incre- 
dulity. “ May I ask if there is anything you can 7iot do?” 

“There is absolutely nothing,” sententiously. And 
then somehow or other they were standing close 
together, as usual, his arm around her waist, her hands 
clasped upon his sleeve. “ When we get the house in 
Putney, or Bayswater, or Peckham Rise, or whatever it 
is to be,” she said, laughing in her most coaxing way, 
“this sort of thing will be convenient. And it is to come, 
you know — the house I mean.” 

“Yes,” admitted Griffith, with dubious cheerfulness, “it 
is to come — some time or other.” 

But her cheerfulness was not of a dubious kind at all. 
She only laughed again, and patted his arm with a charm- 
ing air of proprietorship. 

“ I have got something else to show you,” she said ; 
'‘something up-stairs. Can you guess what it is? Some- 
thing for Mollie — something she wanted which is dread- 
fully extravagant.” 


96 


DOLLY, 


“What!” exclaimed Griffith. “Not the maroon silk | 
affair I” I 

“Yes,” her comical doubt as to the wisdom of her | 
course expressing itself in a whimsical little grimace. “ I \ 
couldn’t help it It will make her so happy ; and I should 
so have liked it myself if I had been in her place.” 

She had been going to lead him up-stairs to show it 
to him as it lay in state, locked up in the parlor, but all 
at once she changed her mind. 

“ No,” she said ; “ I think you had better not see it ' 
until Mollie comes down in state. It will look best then ; . 
so I won’t spoil the effect by letting you see it now.” } 
Griffith had brought his offering, too — not much of an [ 
offering, perhaps, but worth a good deal when valued ; 
according to the affectionate good-will it represented. ^ 
“The girls” had a very warm corner in the young man’s | 
tender heart, and the half-dozen pairs of gloves he pro- j 
duced from the shades of an inconvenient pocket of his | 
great-coat, held their own modest significance. J 

“ Gloves,” he said, half-apologetically, “ always come 
in ; and I believe I heard Mollie complaining of hers the |' 
other day.” 

Certainly they were appreciated by the young lady in 
question, their timely appearance disposing of a slight 
difficulty of addition to her toilet. | 

The maroon silk was to be a surprise ; and surely if i 
ever surprise was a success, this was. Taking into con- 
sideration the fact that she had spent the earlier part of S 
the day in plaintive efforts to remodel a dubious garment m 
into a form fitting to grace the occasion, it is not to be M 
wondered at that the sudden realization of one of her J 
most hopelessly vivid imaginings rather destroyed the I 
perfect balance of her equilibrium. H 


m WHICH THE PHILISTINES BE UPON US. 97 

She had almost completed her* toilet when Dolly pro- 
duced her treasure , nothing, in fact, remained to be done 
but to don the dubious garment, when Dolly, slipping 
out of the room, returned almost immediately with some- 
thing on her arm. 

“ Never mind your old alpaca, Mollie,’’ she said. “ I 
have something better for you here.” 

Mollie turned round in some wonder to see what she 
meant, and the next minute she turned red and pale with 
admiring amazement. 

“Dolly,” she said, rather unnecessarily, “it’s a maroon 
silk.” And she sat down with her hands clasped, and 
stared at it in the intensity of her wonder. 

“Yes,” said Dolly, “it is a^aroon silk, and you are 
to wear it to-night. It is Phil’s birthday present to you 
— and mine.” 

The spell was broken at once. The girl got up and 
made an impulsive rush at her, and, flinging her bare 
white arms out, caught her in a tempestuous embrace, 
maroon silk and all, laughing and crying both together. 

“ Dolly,” she said, “ Dolly, it is the grandest thing I 
ever had in my life, and you are the best two — you and 
Phil — that ever lived!” And not being as eloquent by 
nature as she was grateful and affectionate, she poured 
out the rest of her thanks in kisses and interjections. 

Then Dolly, extricating herself, proceeded to add the 
final touches to the unfinished toilet, and in a very few 
minutes Miss Mollie stood before the glass regarding 
herself in such ecstatic content as she had perhaps never 
before experienced. 

“ Who is going to be here, Dolly ?” she asked, after 
taking her first survev. 


7 


98 


DOLLY. 


‘‘Who?” said Dolly. “Well, I scarcely know. Only 
one or two of Phil’s friends and Ralph Gowan.” 

Mollie gave a little start, and then blushed in the most 
pathetically helpless way. 

“ Ah !” she said, and looked at her reflection in the glass 
again, as if she did not exactly know what else to do. 

A swift shadow of surprise showed itself in Dolly’s 
eyes, and died out almost at the same moment. * 

“ Are you ready ?” she said, briefly. “ If you are, we 
will go down stairs.” 

There was a simultaneous cry of admiration when Jhe 
two entered the parlor below, and Miss Mollie appeared 
attired in all her glory. 

“ Here she is !” exclaigied ’Toinette and Aimde, to- 
gether. 

“Just the right shade,” was Phil’s immediate com- 
ment. “ Catches the lights and throws out her coloring 
so finely. Turn round, Mollie.” 

And Mollie turned round obediently, a trifle abashed { 
by her own gorgeousness, and looking all the lovelier 
for her momentary abasement. 

Griffith was delighted. He went to her and kissed 
her, and praised her with the enthusiastic frankness | 
which characterized all his proceedings with regard to f 
the different members of the family of his betrothed. 

He was as proud of the girl’s beauty as if she were a ^ : 
sister of his own. i ; 

Then the object of their mutual admiration knelt 
down upon the hearth-rug, before Tod, who, attired, in ' j 
ephemeral splendor, had stopped in his tour across the i; 
room to stare up with bright baby wonder at the novelty 
of warm, rich color which had caught his fancy. f| 

“ I must kiss Todd,” she said ; no ceremony was ever || 
considered complete, and no occasion perfect, unless ® 


IN WHICH THE PHILISTINES BE UPON US. 99 ' 


Tod had been kissed, and so taken into the general con- 
fidence. “ Tod, come and be kissed.” 

But, being a young gentleman of by no means effusive 
nature. Tod preferred to remain stationary, holding to 
the toe of his red shoe and gazing upward with an ex- 
pression of approbation and indifference commingled, 
which delighted his feminine admirers beyond expres- 
^sion. 

” He knows it is something new,” said ’Toinette. “See 
how he looks at it.” Whereupon, of course, there was 
a chorus of delighted acquiescence, and Aunt Dolly must 
needs go down upon the hearth-rug, too. 

“ Has Aunt Mollie got a grand new dress on. Beauty?” 
she said, glowing with such pretty, foolish, womanly 
adoration of this atom of all-ruling babydom, as made 
her seem the very cream and essence of lovableness and 
sweet nonsense. And then. Master Tod, still remaining 
unmoved by adulation, and still regarding his small cir- 
cle of tender sycophants with round, liquid, baby eyes 
serene, and tiny, dewy, red lips apart, was so effective in 
this one of his many entrancing moods, that he was no 
longer to be resisted, and so was caught up and em- 
braced with ecstacy. 

“He notices everything,” cries Aunt Dolly; “and I’m 
sure he understands every word he hears. He is so dif- 
ferent from other babies.” 

Different ! Of course he was different. There was 
not one of them but indignantly scouted at the idea of 
there ever having before existed such a combination of 
infantile gifts and graces. The most obtuse of people 
could not fail to acknowledge his vast superiority, in 
spite of their obtusenees. 

“But,” remarked Aimde, with discretion, “you had 


100 


DOLLY. 


better stand up, Mollie, or you will crush your front 
breadths.” 

So, Mollie, with a saving recollection of front breadths, 
arose, and so it chanced just in time to turn toward the 
door as Ralph Gowan came in. 

He was looking his best to-night — that graceful, envi- 
able, thorough-bred best, which was the natural result of 
culture, money and ease ; and Dolly, catching sight of 
Mollie’s guileless blushes, deplored, while' she did not 
wonder at them, understanding her as she did. It was 
just like the child, to blush, feeling 'herself the centre of 
observation, but she could not help wishing that her 
blush had not been quite so quick and sensitive a one. 

But, if she had flushed when he entered, she flushed 
far more when he came to speak to her. He held in his 
hand a bouquet of -flowers — a rare wonder of waxen, 
white camelia buds and bloom, and dark, shadowy green 
— quite a whim in the way of bouquets ; a whim of his 
own, he said. 

I heard about the maroon dress,” he added, when he 
had given it to her, “and my choice of your flowers was 
guided accordingly. White camelias, worn with maroon 
silk, are artistic, Mollie, your brother will tell you.” 

“ They are very pretty,” said Mollie, looking down at 
them in grateful confusion; “and I am much obliged. 
Thank you, Mr, Gowan.” i 

“A great many good wishes go with them,” he said» j 
good-naturedly. “If I were an enchanter, you should | 
never grow any older from this day forward.” And, j 
really, his speech was something more than an idle com- 
pliment. There was something touching to him, too, in i| 
the fact of the child’s leaving her childhood behind her, ; 
and confronting so ignorantly the unconscious dawn of 


IN WHICH THE PHILISTINES BE UPON US. 101 

a womanhood which might hold so much of the bitter- 
ness of knowledge. 

But, of course, Mollie did not understand this. 

Why ?” she asked him, forgetting her camelias, iru 
her wonder at his fancy. 

“Why?” said he. “Because seventeen is such a 
charming age, Mollie ; and it would be well for so many 
of us if we did not outlive its faith and freshness.” 

He crossed over to Dolly then and made his well- 
turned speech of friendly greeting to her also, but his 
most ordinary speech to her had its own subtle warmth. 
He was growing very fond, dangerously fond of Dolly 
Crewe. But Dolly was a trifle pre-occupied ; she was 
looking almost anxiously at Mollie and the camelias. 

“ He has been paying her a compliment or she would 
not look so fluttered and happy,” she was saying to her- 
self “ I wish he wouldn’t. It may please him, but it is 
dangerous work for Mollie.” 

And when she raised her eyes to meet Ralph Gowan’s, 
he saw that there was the ghost of a regretful shadow in 
them. 

She had too much to do, however, to be troubled long. 
Phil’s friends began to drop in one by one, and the busi- 
ness of the evening occupied her attention. There was 
coffee to be handed round, and she stood at a side-table 
and poured it out herself into tiny, quaint cups of old 
china, which were a relic of former grandeur, and as she 
moved to and fro, bringing one of these quaint cups to 
one, or a plate of fantastic, little cakes to another, and 
flavoring the whole repast with her running fire of spicy 
speeches, Gowan found himself following her with his 
eyes and rather extravagantly comparing her to ambro- 
sia-bearing Hebe, at the same time thinking that in 


102 


DOLLY. 


Vagabondia these things were better done than else- 
where. 

The most outri of Phil’s hirsute and carelessly-garbed 
fellow Bohemians somehow or other seemed neither 
vulgar nor ill at ease. They evidently felt at home *Jind 
admired faithfully and with complete unison the feminine 
members of their friend’s family, and their readiness to 
catch at the bright or grotesque side of any situation, 
evinced itself in a manner worthy of imitation. Then, 
too, there was Tod taking excursionary rambles about 
the carpet, and far from being in the way, on the con- 
trary, rendering himself an innocent centre of attraction. 
Brown cracked jokes with him, Jones bribbd him with 
cake to the performance of before-unheard-of feats, and 
one muscular, fiercely moustached and bearded young 
man, whose artistic forte was battle-pieces of the most 
sanguinary description, appropriated him bodily and set 
him on his shoulder, greatly to the detriment of his 
paper collar. 

“ The spirit of Vagabondia is strong in Tod,” said 
Dolly, who, at the time, was standing near Gowan upon 
the hearth-rug, with her own coffee-cup in hand ; “ his 
chief characteristic is his readiness to accornmodate 
himself to circumstances.” 

Through the whole of the evening Mollie and the 
camelias shone forth with simple resplendence. Those 
of Phil’s masculine friends who had known her since her 
babyhood felt instinctively that to-night the Rubicon had 
been passed. Unconscious as she was of herself, she 
was a thought imposing in the .maroon silk, and these 
free and easy, good-natured fellows were the very men 
to be keenly alive to any subtle power of womanhood. 
So when they addressed her their manner was a trifle 


fN- WHICH THE PHILISTINES BE UPON US. 103 


subdued and their deportment toward her held its own 
faint savor of delicate reverence. 

And as to Dolly — truth to be told, Dolly was in her 
element. Her little songs, her little supper and her little 
plans of entertainment were a perfect success, and, in a 
small way, she was quite brilliant. Such jokes as she 
made and such laughter as she managed to elicit through 
the medium of the smallest of them, and such aptness 
and tact as she displayed in keeping up the general fusil- 
lade of bon-mots and repartee. It would have been im- 
possible Iot a witticism to fall short of its mark under' 
her active superintendence, even if witticisms had been 
prone to fall short in Vagabondia, which they decidedly 
were^not. She kept Griffith busy, too, from first to last, 
perhaps because she felt it to be the safest plan ; at any 
rate she held him near her and managed to keep him in 
the best of spirits all the evening, and more than once 
Gowan, catching a glimpse of her as she addressed some 
simple remark to the favored one, recognised a certain 
bright softness in her face which told its own story. But 
there would have been little use in openly displaying his 
discomfiture, so after feeling irritated for a moment or 
so, Ralph Gowan allowed himself to drift into gradual 
attendance upon Mollie, and being almost gratefully re- 
ceived by that young lady he did not find that the time 
passed slowly. 

“ I am so glad you came here,” she said to him, plain- 
tively, when he first crossed the room to her side. “ I 
do so hate Brown.” 

“Brown !” he echoed. “Who ts Brown, Mollie? and 
what ha^ Brown been doing to incur your resentment?” 

Mollie gave her shoulders a petulant little shrug. 

“ Brown is that little man in the big coat,” she said, 


104 


DOLLY, 


“ the one who went away when you came. I wish he 
would stay away. I can’t bear him,” with delightful 
candor. 

“ But why ?” persisted Gowan, casting a glance at the 
side of the room where Dolly stood talking to her lover. 
“ Is it because his coat is so big, or because he is so little 
that he is so objectionable ? To be at once moral and 
instructive, Mollie, a man is not to be judged by his coat.” 

“ I know that,” returned -Mollie, her unconscious inno- 
cence asserting itself; “ it isn’t that. You couldn’t be as 
disagreeable as he is if you were dressed in rags.” 

Gowan turned quickly to look at her, forgetting even 
Dolly for the instant — but she was quite in earnest, and 
met his questioning eyes wdth the most pathetic igno- 
rance of having said anything extraordinary. Indeed her 
faith in what she had said was so patent that he found it 
impossible to answer her with a light or jesting speech. 

“ It isn’t that,” she went on, pulling at a glossy green 
leaf on her bouquet. If he didn’t — if he wouldn’t — if he 
didn’t keep saying things ” 

“ What sort of things,” asked Gowan, to help her out 
of her dilemma. 

“ I — don’t know.” was the shy reply. Stupid things.” 

“ Stupid things !” he repeated. “ Poor Brown !” and his 
eyes wandered to Dolly again. 

But it would not have been natural that he should not 
be attracted by Mollie, after all, and in the course of time 
in a measure consoled by her. She was so glad to be 
protected from the advances of the pensive and much 
despised Brown, that he found it rather pleasant than 
otherwise to constitute himself her body-guard ; to talk 
to her as they sat, and to be her partner in the stray 
dances w'hich accidentally enlivened the evening’s enter- 


m WHICH THE PHILISTINES BE UPON US 105 

tainment. She danced exquisitely, too, he discovered, 
and with such evident enjoyment of her own smooth, 
swaying movements as was quite magnetic, and made 
him half reluctant to release her when their first waltz 
was ended, and she stopped all aflush with new bloom. 

“ I am so fond of dancing,” she said, catching her breath 
in a little sigh of ecstasy. “We all are. It is one of the 
things we can do without spending any money, you 
know.” 

It was shortly after this — just as they were standing 
in twos and threes, chatting and refreshing themselves 
with Dolly’s confections and iced lemonade, that an 
entirely unexpected advent occurred. There suddenly 
fell upon the general ear a sound as of rolling wheels, 
and a carriage stopped before the door. 

Dolly, standing in the midst of a small circle of her own, 
paused in her remarks to listen. 

“ It is a carriage, that is certain enough,” she said — 
“and somebody is getting out. I don’t know” — and 
then a light breaking over her face in a flash of horror 
and deligM in the situation commingled. “Phil,” she 
exclaimed, “the Philistines be upon us — it is Lady 
Augusta !” 

And it was. In two minutes that majestic and amiable 
lady was ushered in by the excited Belinda, and announced 
in the following rather remarkable manner : 

“ If yer please. Miss Dolly, here’s yer aunt, Mr. Phil.” 

For a second her ladyship was speechless, even though 
Dolly advanced to meet her at once. The festive gath- 
ering was too much for her, and the sight of Ralph 
Gowan leaning over Mollie in all her bravery, holding 
her flowers for her, and appearing so evidently at home. 


106 


DOLLY. 


overpowered her completely. But she recovered herself 
at length. 

“I was not aware,” she said, to Dolly, “that you were 
having a ” — pause for a word sufficiently significant, “ that 
you were holding a reception,” a scathing glance at the 
pensive Brown, who was at once annihilated. “You will 
possibly excuse my involuntary intrusion. I thought, of 
course^' emphasis, “ that I should find you alone, and as 
I had something to say to you concerning Euphemia, I 
decided to call to-night on my way from the conversa- 
zione at Dr. Bugby’s — perhaps, Dorothea, your friends,” 
emphasis again, “will excuse you fora moment, and you 
will take me into another room,” this last as if she had 
suddenly found herself in a fever hospital and was rather 
afraid of contagion. 

But apart from Mollie, who pouted and flushed, and 
was extremely uncomfortable, nobody seemed to be 
either chilled or overwhelmed. Phil’s greeting was so 
cordial and unmoved a one, that her ladyship could only 
proffer him the tips of her fingers in imposing silence, 
and Dolly’s quiet air of placid good-humor was so per- 
fect in its way, that it was as good as a modest theatrical i 
entertainment. | 

She led her visitor out of the room with a most i 
untroubled countenance, after her ladyship had honored 
Gowan with a word or so, kindly signifying her intense 
surprise at meeting him in the house, and rather intimat- 
ing, delicately, that she could not comprehend his extra- 
ordinary conduct, and hoped he would not live to regret it. . 

The interview was not a long one, however. In about 
ten minutes the carriage rolled away, and Dolly came 
back to the parlor with a touch of new color on her 
cheek, and a dying-out spark of fire in her eye, and 


m WHICH THE PHILISTINES BE UPON US. 107 

though her spirits did not seem to have failed her, she 
was certainly a trifle moved by something. 

“ Let us have another waltz,” she said, rather as if she 
wished to dismiss Lady Augusta from the carpet. “ I 
will play this time. Phil, find a partner.” 

She sat down to the piano at once, and swept off into 
one of Phil’s own compositions, and from that time till 
the end of the evening she scarcely gave them a moment’s 
pause, and was herself so full of sparkle and resources 
that she quite enraptured Gowan, and made the great 
shabby room and the queer shabby life seem more novel 
and entrancing than ever. 

But when the guests were gone, and only Griffith, who 
was always last, remained with Phil and the girls, grouped 
about the fire, the light died out of her mood, and she 
looked just a trifle anxious and tired. 

“ Girls,” she said, “ I have some bad news to tell you 
—at least some news that isn’t exactly good. Lady 
Augusta has given me what Belinda would call ‘warn- 
ing.’ I visit the select precincts of Bilberry House as 
governess no more.” 

There is no denying it was a blow to them all. Her 
salary had been a very necessary part of the family income, 
and if they had been straitened with it, certainly there 
would be a struggle without it. And then, as I have said, 
they were not very well versed in domestic economy. 

“ Oh !” cried Mollie, remorsefully. “ And you have 
just spent nearly all you had on my dress. And you 
do so want things yourself, Dolly. What shall you do?” 

“ Begin to take in the daily papers and peruse the adver- 
tising column,” she answered, courageously. “Never 
mind, it will all come right before long, and we can keep 
up our spirits until then.” 


108 


DOLLY. 


But, despite her assumed good spirits, when she went 
to see Griffith out of the front door, she held to his arm 
with a significantly clinging touch, and was so silent for 
a moment that he stooped in the dark to kiss her, and 
found her cheek wet with tears. 

It quite upset him, too, poor fellow, and he had been 
moved sympathetically enough before. Dolly crying 
and daunted was a state of affairs fraught with anguish 
to him. 

“ Why, Dolly !” he exclaimed, tremulously. “ Dolly, 
you are crying !” 

And then she did give way, and for a minute or so quite 
needed the shelter and rest of his arms. She cared for no 
other shelter or rest; he was quite enough for her in her 
brightest or darkest day — ^just this impecunious young 
man, whose prospects were so limited, but whose affec- 
tion for her was so wholly without limit. She might be 
daunted, but she could not remain long uncomforted 
while her love and trust were still unchanged. Ah ! 
there was a vast amount of magic in the simple, silent 
pressure of the arm within that shabby coat-sleeve. 

So, as might be expected, she managed to recover her- 
self before many minutes, and receive his tender condo- 
lences with renewed spirit; and when she bade him good- 
night she was almost herself again, and was laughing, 
even though her eyelashes were wet. 

“ No,” she said, “we are not going to destruction. Lady 
Augusta to the contrary, and the family luck must assert 
itself some time, since it has kept itself so long in the 
background. And in the meantime — well,” with a little 
parting wave of her hand, “ Vagabondia to the rescue!” 


WANTED, A YOUNG PERSON. 


109 


CHAPTER VI. 

WANTED, A YOUNG PERSON. 

T here was much diligent searching of the adver- 
tising columns of the daily papers for several weeks 
after this. Advertisements, in fact, became the staple 
literature, and Dolly’s zeal in the perusal of them was 
only to be equalled by her readiness to snatch at the 
opportunities they presented. No weather was too grew- 
some for her to confront, and no representation too un- 
promising for her to be allured by. In the morning she 
was at Bayswater calling upon the chilling mother of six 
(four of them boys) whose moral nature needed judicious 
attention, and who required to be taught the rudiments 
of French, German and Latin ; in the afternoon she was 
at the general post-office applying to Q. Y. Z., who had 
the education of two interesting orphans to negotiate 
for, and who was naturally desirous of doing it as eco- 
nomically as possible ; and at night she was at home, 
writing modest, business-like epistles to every letter in 
the alphabet in every conceivable or inconceivable part 
of the country. 

“ If I had only been born ‘ a .stout youth,’ or ' a likely 
young man,’ or *a respectable middle-aged person,’ I 
should have been ^ wanted ’ a dozen times a day,” she 
would remark, “ but as it is, I suppose I must wait until 


110 


DOLLY. 


something ‘ presents itself/ as the Rev. Marmaduke puts 
it.” 

And in defiance of various discouraging and dispirit- 
ing influences, she waited with a tolerable degree of 
tranquillity until, in the course of time, her patience was 
rewarded. Sitting by the fire one morning with Tod 
and a newspaper, her eye was caught by an advertise- 
ment which, though it did not hold out any extra induce- 
ments, still attracted her attention, so she read it aloud 
to Aimee and ’Toinette. 

“ Wanted, a young person to act as companion to an 
elderly lady. Apply at the printer’s.” 

“There, Aimee,” she commented, “ there is another. 
I suppose I might call myself ‘ a young person.’ Don’t 
you think I had better ' apply at the printer’s?’” 

“They don’t mention terms,” said Aim^e. 

“You would have to leave home,” said ’Toinette. 

Dolly folded up the paper and tossed it on to the table 
with a half sigh. She had thought of that the moment 
she read the paragraph, and then, very naturally, she 
had thought of Griffith. It would not be exactly feasi- 
ble to include him in her arrangements, even if she made 
any. Elderly ladies who engage “young persons” as 
companions were not in the habit of taking kindly to 
miscellaneous young men, consequently the prospect 
was not a very bright one. 

There would only be letter writing left to them, and 
letters seemed such cold comfort contrasted with every- 
day meetings. She remembered, too, a certain six 
months she had spent with her Bilberry charges in 
Switzerland, when Griffith had nearly been driven frantic 
by her absence and his restless dissatisfaction, and when 
their letters had only seemed new aids to troublous 


WANTED, A YOUNG PERSON. 


Ill 


though unintentional games at cross-purposes. There 
might be just the same thing to undergo again, but, then, 
how was it to be avoided ? It was impossible to remain 
idle just at this juncture. 

“ So it cannot be helped,” she said, aloud. “ I must 
take it if I can get it, and I must stay in it until I can 
find something more pleasant, though I cannot help 
wishing that matters did not look so unpromising. Tod, 
you will have to go down, Aunt Dolly is going to put 
on her hat and present herself at the printer’s in the cha- 
racter of a young person in search of an elderly lady.” 

Delays were dangerous she had been taught by expe- 
rience, so she ran up-stairs at once for her out-door 
attire, and came down in a few minutes, drawing on her 
gloves and looking a trifle ruefully at them. 

“They are getting discouragingly white at the seams,” 
she said, “ and it seems almost impossible to keep them 
sewed up. I shall have to borrow Aimee’s muff. What 
a blessing it is that the weather is so cold !” 

At the bottom of the staircase she met Mollie. 

“ Phemie is in the parlor, Dolly,” she announced, “and 
she wants to see you. I don’t believe Lady Augusta 
knows she is here, either, she looks so dreadfully flut- 
tered.” 

And when she entered the room, surely enough 
Phemie jumped up with a nervous bound from a chair 
immediately behind the door, and, dropping her muff and 
umbrella and two or three other small articles, caught 
her in a tremulous embrace, and at once proceeded to 
bedew her with tears. 

“ Oh, Dolly !” she lamented, pathetically ; “ I have 
come to say good-by ; and, oh ! what shall I do without 
you ?” 


112 


DOLLY, 


“ Good-by !” said Dolly. Why, Phemie ?” 

“ Switzerland !” sobbed Phemie. “ The — the select 
seminary at Geneva, Dolly, where th-that professor of 
m-music with the lumpy face was.” 

'‘Dear me!” Dolly ejaculated. “You don’t mean to 
say you are going there, Phemie ?” 

“ Yes, I do,” answered Euphemia. “ Next week, too. 
And, oh, dear, Dolly I” — trying to recover her handker- 
chief — “ if it had been anywhere else I could have borne 
it, but that ” — resignedly — “ was the reason mamma set- 
tled on it. She found out how I loathed the very thought 
of it, and then she decided immediately. • And don’t you 
remember those mournful girls, Dolly, who used to walk 
out like a funeral procession, and how we used to make 
fun — at least how you used to make fun of the lady 
principal’s best bonnet ?” 

It will be observed by this that Miss Dorothea Crewe’s 
intercourse with her pupils had not been as strictly in 
accordance with her position as instructress as it had been 
friendly. She had even gone so far as to set decorum at 
defiance, by being at once entertaining and jocular, 
though to her credit it must be said that she had worked 
hard enough for her modest salary, and had not neg- 
lected even the most trivial of her numerous duties. 

She began to console poor Euphemia to the best of 
her ability, but Euphemia refused to be comforted. 

“ I shall have to take lessons from that lumpy profes- 
sor, Dolly,” she said. “And you know how I used to 
hate him when he would make love to you. And that 
was mamma’s fault, too, because she would patronize him 
and call him ‘a worthy person.’ He was the only man 
who admired you I ever knew her to encourage, and she 


WANTED, A YOUNG PERSON 113 

wouldn’t have encouraged him if he hadn’t been so 
detestable.” 

It was very evident that the eldest Miss Bilberry was 
in a highly rebellious and desperate state of mind. 
Dolly’s daily visits, educational though they were, had 
been the brightest gleams of sunlight in her sternly- 
regulated existence. No one had ever dared to joke in 
the Bilberry mansion but Dolly, and no one but Dolly 
had ever made the clan' gatherings bearable to Euphemia ; 
and now that Dolly was cut off from them all, and there 
were to be no more jokes and no more small adventures, 
life seemed a desert indeed. And then with the calam- 
itous prospect of Switzerland and the lumpy professor 
before her, Phemie was crushed indeed. 

“ Mamma doesn’t know I came,” she confessed, tear- 
fully, at last; “but I couldn’t help it, Dolly; I couldn’t 
go away without asking you to write to me and to let 
me write to you. You will write to me, won’t you ?” 

Dolly promised at once, feeling a trifle affected herself. 
She had always been fond of Phemie, and inclined to 
sympathize with her, and now she exerted herself to her 
utmost to cheer her. She persuaded her to sit down, 
and after picking up the muff and umbrella and parcels, 
took a seat by her, and managed to induce her to dry 
her tears and enter into particulars. 

“ It will never do for Lady Augusta to see that you 
have been crying,” she said. “ Dry your eyes, and tell 
me all about it, and — wait a minute, I have a box of cho- 
colates here, and I know you like chocolates.” 

It was a childish and weak enough consolation per- 
haps, but Dolly knew what she was doing and who she 
was dealing with, and this comforting with confections 
was not without its kindly girlish tact. Chocolates were 
8 


114 


DOLLY. 


one of Phemie’s numerous school-girl weaknesses, and 
a weakness so rarely indulged in that she perceptibly 
brightened when her friend produced tlie gay-colored, 
much-gilded box. And thus stimulated, she poured 
forth her sorrows with more coherence and calmness. 
She was to go to Switzerland, that was settled, and the 
others were to be placed in various other highly select 
educational establishments. They were becoming too 
old now. Lady Augusta had decided, to remain under 
Dolly’s care. 

“And then,” added Euphemia, half timidly, “you 
won’t be vexed if I tell you, will you ?” 

“ Certainly not,” answered Dolly, who knew very well 
what was coming, though poor Phemie evidently thought 
.she w'as going to impart an extremely novel and unex- 
pected piece of intelligence. “ What is it, Phemie ?” 

“ Well, somehow or other, I don’t believe mamma ex- 
actly likes you, Dolly.” 

Now, considering circumstances, this innocent speech 
really amounted to being a rich sort of thing to say, but 
Dolly did not laugh ; she might caricature Lady Augusta 
for the benefit of her own select circle of friends, but she j 
never made jokes about her before Phemie, however | 
sorely she might be tempted. So, now she helped her- i 
self to a chocolate with perfect sobriety of demeanor. j 

“ Perhaps not,” she admitted. “ I have thought so ^ 
myself, Phemie.” And then, as soon as possible, changed i 
the subject. 

At length Phemie rose to go. As Lady Augusta was 
under the impression that she was merely taking the dis- 
mal daily constitutional, which was one of her unavoid- 
able penances, it would not do to stay too long. 

“ So, I must go,” lamented Phemie ; “ but, Dolly, if 


WANTED, A YOUNG PERSON. 


115 


you wouldn’t mind, I should so like to see the baby. I 
have never seen him since the day we called with mam- 
ma — and I am so fond of babies, and he was so pretty.” 

Dolly laughed, in spite of herself. She remembered 
the visit so well, and Lady Augusta’s loftily resigned air 
of discovering in the passively degenerate new arrival 
the culminating point of the family depravity. 

” It is much to be regretted,” she had said, disapprov- 
“but it is exactly what I foresaw from the first, 
and you will have to make the best of it.” 

And then, on Dolly’s modestly suggesting that they 
intended to do so, and were not altogether borne down 
to the earth by the heavy nature of their calamity, she 
had openly shuddered. 

But Phemie had quite clung to the small nondescript 
bundle of lawn and flannel, and though she had never 
seen Tod since, she had by no means forgotten him. 

“ He will be quite a big boy when I come back,” she 
added. “ And I should so like to see him once again 
while he is a baby.” 

“ Oh, you shall see him,” said Dolly.- “ Tod is the one 
individual in this house who always feels himself pre- 
pared to receive visitors. He isn’t fastidious about his 
personal appearance. If you will come into the next 
room, I dare say we shall find him.” 

And they did find him. Being desirous of employing, 
to the greatest advantage, the time spent in his retire- 
ment within the bosom of his family, he was concentrat- 
ing his energies upon the mastication of the toe of his 
slipper, upon which task he was bestowing the strictest 
and most undivided attention, as he sat in the centre of 
the hearth-rug. 

“ He has got another tooth. Aunt Dolly,” announced 


116 


DOLLY. 


’Toinette, triumphantly, as soon as the greetings were 
over. “ Show Aunt Dolly his tooth.” And, being laid 
upon his back on the maternal knee, in the most uncom- 
fortable and objectionable of , positions, the tooth was 
exhibited, as a matter calling forth public rejoicings. 

Phemie knelt on the carpet before him, the humblest 
of his devotees. 

“ He is prettier than ever,” she said. Do you think 
he would come to me, Mrs. Crewe ?” 

And, though the object of her simple admiration at 
once asserted his prerogatives by openly rejecting her 
overtures with scorn and wrath, she rejoiced over him as 
ecstatically as if he had shown himself the most amiable 
of infant prodigies, which he most emphatically had not, 
probably having been rendered irascible by the rather 
rash and inconsiderately displayed interest in his dental 
developments. Whatever more exacting people might 
have thought, Phemie was quite satisfied. 

“ I wish I was in your place, Dolly,” she said, in the 
midst of her farewells, as she was going away. You 
seem so happy together here, somehow or other. Oh, 
dear! You don’t know how dreadful our house seems 
by contrast. If things would break or upset, or look a 
little untidy — or, if mamma’s caps and dresses just 
wouldn’t look so solid and heavy ” 

“Ah !” laughed Dolly, “ you haven’t seen our worst 
side, Phemie — the shabby side, which means, worn shoes 
and old dresses and bills. We don’t get our whistle for 
nothing in Vagabondia, though, to be sure” — and I 
won’t say a memory of the shabby coat-sleeve did not 
suggest the amendment — “ I don’t think we pay too 
dearly for it ; and I believe there is not one of us who 
would not rather pay for it than live without it.” 


WANTED, A YOUNG PERSON. 


117 


And when she gave the girl her farewell kiss, it was a 
very warm one, with a strong touch of pity in it. It was 
so impossible for her to help feeling sympathy for any 
one who was without the Griffith element of existence. 

After this she went out herself to apply at the printer’s, 
and applying at the printer’s, she was sent to Brabazon 
Lodge, which was a suburban establishment, in a chilly, 
aristocratic quarter. An imposing edifice, Brabazon 
Lodge, built of stone, and most uncompromisingly 
devoid of superfluous ornament. No mock minarets or 
unstable towers at Brabazon Lodge — a substantial man- 
sion in a substantial garden behind substantial iron gates, 
and so solid in its appointments that it was quite a task 
for Dolly to raise the substantial lion’s head which 
formed the front-door knocker. 

Wanted, a young person,” she was saying to herself, 
meekly, when her summons was answered by a man 
servant, and the fact was, she barely escaped announcing 
herself as “the young person, sir.” 

Once inside the house, she was not kept waiting. She 
was ushered into a well-appointed side-room, where a 
bright fire burned in the grate, and then the man retired 
to make known her arrival to his mistress, and Dolly set- 
tled herself in a chair by the hearth. 

“I wonder how many ‘young persons’ have been sent 
away sorrowing this morning,” she said, “and I wonder 
how Griffith will like the idea of my filling the position 
of companion to an elderly lady, or any other order of 
lady, for the matter of that ? Poor old fellow,” and she 
gave vent to an unmistakable sigh. 

But the appearance of the elderly lady put an end to 
her regrets. The door opened and she entered just as 
her luckless young visitor had finished sighing, and Dolly 


118 


DOLLY. 


rose to receive her. The next instant, however, she gave 
a little start, as well she might. She had seen the elderly 
lady before, and that on a rather memorable occasion, 
and confronting her now recognised her at once — Miss 
Berenice MacDowlas. And that Miss MacDowlas re- 
cognised her also was quite evident, for she advanced 
with the air of one who was not at all at a loss. 

“How do you do?” she remarked, succinctly, and 
actually gave Dolly her hand. 

That young person took it modestly. 

“I believe I have had the pleasure — ” she was begim 
ning, when Miss MacDowlas interrupted her. 

“You met me at the Bilberrys,” she said. “ I remem- 
ber seeing you very well. You are Dorothea Crewe.” 

Dolly bowed in her most insinuatingly graceful man- 
ner. 

“Take a seat,” .said Miss MacDowlas. 

Dolly did so at once. 

Miss MacDowlas looked at her with the air of an 
elderly lady who was not displeased. 

“I remember you very well,” she repeated. “You 
were governess there. Why did you leave ?” 

Dolly scarcely knew very definitely and told her so. 
The notice given, her had been an unexpected one. 
Lady Augusta had said it was because her pupils were 
old enough to be sent from home. 

“ Oh !” said Miss MacDowlas, and looked at her again 
from her hat to her questionable shoes. 

“You are fond of reading?” she asked next. 

“Yes,” answered Dolly. 

“You read French well?” 

“Yes,” said Dolly. She knew she need not hesitate 
to say that, at least. 


WANTED, A YOUNG PERSON. 


119 


“You are good company and are fond of society?” 

“ I am fond of society,” said Dolly, “and I hope I am 
‘ good company.’ ” 

•“ You don’t easily lose patience?” 

“ It depends upon circumstances,” said Dolly. 

“You can play and sing?” 

“ I did both the night I met you,” returned the young 
person. 

“ So you did,” said Miss MacDowlas, and examined 
her again. 

It was rather an odd interview, upon the whole, but it 
did not end unfortunately. Miss MacDowlas wanted a 
companion who was quick-witted and amusing, and hav- 
ing seen that Dolly was both on the evening of the Bil- 
berry clan gathering, she had taken a fancy to her. So 
after a little sharp questioning, she announced her deci- 
sion. She would employ her to fill the vacant situation 
at the same rate of salary she had enjoyed in her posi- 
tion of governess to the youthful Bilberrys, and she 
would employ her at once. 

“ I want somebody to amuse me,” she said, “ and I 
think you can do it. I am often an invalid, and my 
medical man says the society of a young person will 
benefit me.” 

So it was settled that the following week Dolly should 
take up her abode at Brabazon Lodge and enter into the 
fulfilment of her duties. She was to read, play, sing, 
assist in the entertainment of visitors, and otherwise 
make herself generally useful, and, above all, she was to 
be amusing. 

She left the house and proceeded homeward in a non- 
descript sort of mood. She could have laughed, but 
she was compelled to admit to herself that she could 


120 


DOLLY. 


also have cried with equal readiness. She had met with 
an adventure indeed. She was a young person at large 
no longer, henceforth she was the property of the elderly 
dragon slie had so often laughed at with Griffith. And 
yet the dragon had not been so objectionable, after all, 
upon this occasion, at least. She had been abrupt and 
unceremonious, but she had been better than Lady Au- 
gusta, and she had not shown herself illiberal. But ' 
there would be no more daily visits from Griffith, no 
more tete-d-f^tes in the shabby parlor, no more sitting by 
the fire when the rest had left the room, no more tender 
and inconsistently long farewells at the front door. It 
was not pleasant to think about. She actually found 
herself catching her breath quickly, with a sound half 
like a little sob. 

“ He will miss it awfully,” she said to herself, holding 
her muff closely with her small, cold hands, and shutting 
her eyes to work away a tear ; ‘‘ but he won’t miss it 
more than I shall. He might live without me perhaps, 
but I couldn’t live without him. I wonder if ever two 
people cared for each other as w'e do before? And I 

wonder if the time will ever come ” And there she 

broke offi again, and ended as she so often did. “ Poor 
old fellow !” she said. “ Poor, dear, old, patient, faithful 
fellow ! how I love you !” 

She hurried on briskly after this, but she was wonder- 
ing all the time what he would say when he found out 
that they were really to be separated. He would rebel, 
she knew% and anathematize fate vehemently. But she 
knew the rest of them would regard it as rather a rich 
joke that chance should have thrown her into the hands 
of Miss MacDowlas. They had all so often laughed at 
Griffith’s descriptions of her and her letters, given gen- 


WANTED, A YOUNG PERSON 


121 


erally when he had been galled into a caustic mood by 
the arrival of one of the latter epistles. 

Reaching Bloomsbury Place, Dolly found her lover 
there. He had dropped in on his way to his lodgings, 
and was awaiting her in a fever of expectation, having 
heard the news from Aimde. 

“ What is this Aim^e has been telling me ?” he cried, 
the moment she entered the room. “You can’t be in 
earnest, Doll! You can’t leave home altogether, you 
know.” 

She tossed her muff on the table and sat down on one 
of the low chairs, with her feet on the fender. 

“I thought so until this morning,” she said, a trifle 
mournfully ; “ but it can’t be helped. The fact is it is 
all settled now. I am an engaged young person.” 

“ Settled 1” exclaimed Griffith, indignantly. “ Engaged ! 
Dolly, I didn’t think you would have done it.” 

“ I couldn’t help doing it,” said Dolly, her spirits by 
no means rising as she spoke. “How could I ?” 

But he would not be consoled by any such cold com- 
fort. Somehow or other he had regarded the possibility 
of her leaving the house altogether as something not 
likely to be thought of Very naturally, he was of the 
opinion that Dolly was as absolute a necessity to every 
one else as she was to himself What should he do 
without her ? How could he exist ? It was unreason- 
ing insanity to talk about it. He was so roused by his 
subject indeed, that, neither of them being absolutely 
angelic in temperament, they wandered off into some- 
thing very like a little quarrel about it ; he goaded to 
lover-like madness by the idea that she could live with- 
out him ; she finding her low spirits culminate in a touch 
of anger at his hot-headed, affectionate’ obstinacy. 


122 


DOLLY. 


“ But it is not to be expected,” he broke out at last, 
without any reason whatever, “it is not to be expected 
that you can contend against everything. You are tired 
of disappointment, and I don’t blame you. I should be 
a selfish dolt if I did. If Gowan had -been in my place 
he could have married you, and have given you a home 
of your own. I never shall be able to do that. But,” 
with great weakness and evidence of tribulation at the 
thought, “I didn’t think you would be so cool about it, 
Dolly.” 

“ Cool !” cried Dolly, waxing wroth and penitent both 
at once, as us^ual. “Who is cool? Not I, that is cer- 
tain. I shall miss you every hour of my life, Griffith.” 
And the sad little shadow on her face was such a real 
one that he was pacified at once. 

“ I am an unreasonable simpleton !” was his next re- 
morseful outburst. 

“You have said that before,” said Dolly, rather hard- 
heartedly ; but in spite of it she did not refuse to let him 
be as affectionate as he chose when he knelt down by her 
chair, as he did the next minute. 

“ It would be a great deal better for me,'' she half ; 
whispered, breaking the suspicious silence that followed. 

“ It would be a great deal better for me if I did not care I 
for you half so much and yet at the same time she 
leaned a trifle more toward him in the most traitorous of ‘ 
half coaxing, half-reproachful ways. ; 

“ It would be the death of me," said Griffith ; and he ? I 
at once plunged into an eloquently persuasive disserta- 
tion upon the height, and depth, and breadth, and force 
of his love for her. He was prone to such dissertations, ; , • 
and always ready with one to improve any occasion ; and s 
I am compelled to admit that, far from checking him, t? 


J 


WANTED, A YOUNG PERSON 123 

Dolly rather liked them, and was prone to encourage 
and incite him to their delivery, even by artful means 
and deeply-laid plans. 

When this one was ended, he was quite in the frame 
of mind to listen to reason, and let her enter into particu- 
lars concerning her morning’s efforts, which she did, at 
length, with her usual vivid power of description, only 
adding a flavor of the mysterious up to the introduction 
of Miss MacDowlas. 

‘‘What!” cried out Grifiith,when she let out the secret. 
“Confound it! No! Not Aunt MacDowlas in the flesh, 
Dolly? You are joking.” 

“ No,” answered Dolly, shaking her head at the amazed 
faces of the girls who had com^e in during the recital, and 
who had been guilty of the impropriety of all exclaiming 
at once when the climax was reached. “ I am in earnest. 
I am engaged as companion to no less a person than Miss 
Berenice MacDowlas.” 

“ Why it is like something out^ of a three-volumed 
novel,” said Mollie. 

“ It is a good joke,” said ’Toinette. 

“ It is very av/kward,” commented Aim^e. “ If she finds 
out you are engaged to Griffith, she wall think it so indis- 
creet of you both that she will cut him off with a shil- 
ling.” 

“ Indiscreet !” echoed Dolly. “ So we are indiscreet, 
my sage young friend — but indiscretion is like variety, 
it is the spice of life.” 

And by this brisk speech she managed to sweep away 
the shadow which had touched Griffith’s face, at the 
unconscious hint at their lack of wisdom. 

“ Don’t say such a thing again,” she said to Aim^e 
afterward, when they were talking the matter over, as 


L 

124 DOLLY. 

they always talked things over together, “or he will 
fancy that you share his own belief that he has some- 
thing to reproach himself with. Better to be indiscreet 
than to love one another less.” 

“ A great deal better,” commented the wise one of the 
family, oracularly. She was not nineteen yet, this wise 
one, but she was a great comfort and help to Dolly, and 
indeed to all of them. “ And it isn’t my way to blame 
you, either, Dolly, though things do look so entangled. ’ 
/never advised you to give it up, you know.” 

“ Give it up,” cried Dolly, a soft, pathetic warmth and 
light and color rising to her face and eyes. “ Give it up ! 
There would be too much of what has past and what is 
to come to give up with it. Give it up ! I wouldn’t if 
I could, and the truth is that I couldn’t if I would.” 


m WHICH A SPARK IS APPLIED. 


125 


CHAPTER VII. 

IN WHICH A SPARK IS APPLIED. 

I T was several days before Bloomsbury Place settled 
down and became itself again after Dolly’s depar- 
ture. They all missed her as they would have missed 
any one of their number who had chanced to leave them, 
but Griffith coming in to make his daily visits, was natur- 
ally almost disconsolate, and for a week or so refused to 
be comforted. 

He could not overcome his habit of dropping in on his 
way to and from his lodgings, which were near by, it was 
a habit of too long standing to be overcome easily, and 
besides this, he was so far a part of the family circle that 
his absence from it would have been regarded by its 
other members as something rather like a slight, so he 
was obliged to pay them the delicate attention of present- 
ing himself at least once a day. And thus his wounds ^ 
were kept open. To come into the parlor and find them 
all there but Dolly, to see her favorite chair occupied by 
Mollie or Aimee or ’Toinette, to hear them talk about 
her and discuss her prospects — well, the fact was, that 
there were times when he was quite crushed by it. 

“If there was any hope of a better day coming,” he 
said to Aimde, who, through being the family sage, was, 
of course, the family confidante, “if there was only some- 
thing real to look forward to, but we are just where we 


126 


DOLLY. 


were three years ago, and this sort of thing cannot go 
on for ever. What right have I to hold her to her word 
when other men might make her happier ?” 

Ami^e, sitting on a stool at his feet and looking reflect- 
ive, shook her head — a small, delicate head — with an air 
of pretty wisdom in its every movement, Dolly had often 
declared. 

“ That is not a right view to take,” she said, and it 
isn’t fair to Dolly. Dolly would be happier with you on 
a pound a week than she would be with any one else on 
ten thousand a year. And you ought to know that by 
this time, Grifflth. It isn’t a question of happiness at all.” 

“ I don’t mean — ” he was beginning, but Aimee inter- 
rupted him. Her part of this love affair was to plan 
quaintly for the benefit of the lovers and to endeavor to 
settle their little difficulties in her own way. 

“ I am very fond of Dolly,” she said. 

'‘Fond of her!” echoed Griffith. “So am I. Who isn’t?” 
But there he was pardonably blinded by partiality. 

“I am very fond of Dolly,” Aim^e proceeded. “And 
I know her as other people do not, perhaps. She does 
not show as much of her real self to outsiders as they 
think. I have often thought her daring, open way 
deceived people when it made them fancy she was so 
easy to read. She has queer, little, romantic fancies of 
her own the world never suspects her of — if I did not 
know her as I do she is the last person on earth I should 
suspect of cherishing such fancies. The fact is, you are 
a sort of romance to her, and her love for you is one of 
her dreams, and she clings to it as closely as she would 
cling to life. It is a dream she has lived on so long that 
it has become part of herself, and it is my impression 
that if anything happened to break her belief in it she 


m WHICH A SPARK IS APPLIED, 


127 


would die — yes, with another emphatic shake of 

the pretty head. “And Dolly isn’t the sort of girl to die 
for nothing.” 

Griffith raised his bowed head from his hands, his soft, 
dark, womanish eyes lighting up and his sallow young 
face flushing. 

“ God bless her — no !” he said. “ Her life has not been . 
free from thorns, even so far, and she has not often cried 
out against them.” 

“No,” answered Aimee. “And when the roses come 
no one will see as you will how sweet she finds them. 
Your Dolly isn’t Lady Augusta’s Dolly, or Mollie’s, or 
Ralph Gowan’s, or even mine, she is the Dolly no one 
but her lover and her husband has ever seen or ever will 
see. Vhu can get at the spark in the opal.” 

Somehow or other, half unconsciously, Griffith was 
comforted, as he often found himself comforted under 
the utterances of this modest young family sage. His 
desperation was toned down and he w’as readier to hope 
for the best and to feel warm at heart and actually grate- 
ful — grateful for Dolly and the tender thoughts that were 
bound up in his love for her. The tender phantom Aim^e’s 
words had conjured up, stirred within his bosom a thrill 
so loving and impassioned, that for the time the radiance 
seemed to emanate from the very darkest of his clouds of 
disappointment and discouragement. He was reminded 
that but for those very clouds the girl’s truth and faith 
would never have shone out so brightly. But for their 
poverty and long probation, he could never have learned 
how much she was ready to face for love’s sake. And 
it was such an innocent phantom, too, this bright little 
figure smiling upon him through the darkness, with 
Dolly’s own face, and Dolly’s own saucy, fanciful ways. 


128 


DOLLY. 


and Dolly’s own hands outstretched toward him. To 
tell the truth, he quite plucked up spirit. 

If old Flynn could just be persuaded to give me a 
raise,” he said; and though the remark was as old as the 
Proverbs of Solomon, it was invested with fresh novelty, 
and he felt quite encouraged as he made it. “ It wouldn’t 
take much of an income for two people to live on.” 

“ No,” answered the wise one, feeling some slight mis- 
givings, more on the subject of the out-go than the income. 

You might live on very little — if you had it.” 

“Yes,” said Griffith, apparently struck by brilliancy of 
the observation, “ Dolly and I have said so often.” 

“Let me see,” considered Aim^e, “suppose we were to 
make a sort of calculation. Give me your lead-pencil 
and a leaf out of your pocket book.” 

Griffith produced both at once. He had done it often 
enough before when Dolly had been the calculator, and 
had made a sort of half serious joke of the performance, 
counting up her figures on the tips of her fingers, and 
making great professions of her knowledge of domestic 
matters ; but it was a different affair in Aimde’s hands. 
Aim^e was practically in earnest, and bending over her 
scrap of paper, with two or three little lines on her white 
forehead, began to set things down with an air at once busi- 
ness-like and vigorous, reading the various items aloud. 

“ Rent, coals, taxes, food, wages — you can’t do your own 
washing, you know — clothes, etceteras. There it is, Grif- 
fith,” the odd, tried look settling in her eyes. 

Griffith took the paper. 

“ Thank you,” he remarked, resignedly, after he had 
glanced at it. “Just fifty pounds per annum more than 
I have any prospect of getting. But you are very kind 


IN WHICH A SPARK IS APPLIED. 


129 


to take so much interest in it, little woman.” “Little 
woman ” was his pet name for her. 

She put her hand up to her forehead and gave the 
wrinkles a little rub, as if she would have liked to rub 
them away. 

“No,” she said, in quaint distress. “I am very fond 
of calculating, so it isn’t any trouble to me. I only wish 
I could calculate until what you want and what you have 
got would come out even.” 

Griffith sighed. He had wished the same thing him- 
self upon several occasions. 

He had one consolation in the midst of his tribulations, 
however. He had Dolly’s numerous letters, one of which 
epistles arrived at “ the office ” every few days. Certainly 
they were both faithful correspondents. Tied with blue 
ribbon in a certain strong box, lay an immense collec- 
tion of small envelopes, all marked with one peculiarity, 
namely, that the letters inside them had been at once 
closely written, and so much too tightly packed that it 
seemed a wonder they had ever arrived safely at their 
destination. They bore various postmarks, foreign and 
English, and were of different tints, but they were all 
directed in the one small, dashing hand, whose ^’s were 
crossed with an audacious little flourish, and whose capi- 
tals were so prone to run into whimsical little curls. Most 
of them had been written when Dolly had sojourned with 
her charges in Switzerland, and some of them were merely 
notes of appointment from Bloomsbury Place, but each 
of them held' its own magnetic attraction for Griffith, and 
not on^ of them would he have parted with for untold 
gold. He could count these small envelopes by the score, 
but he had never received one in his life without experi- 
9 


130 


DOLLY. 


encing a positive throb of delight, which held fresh plea- 
sure every time. 

Most of these letters, too, told stories of their own. Some 
had come when he had been discouraged and down at 
heart, and they had been so full of sunshine, and pretty, 
loving conceits, that by the time he had finished reading 
them he had been positively jubilant ; some, I regret to 
say, were a trifle wilful and coquettish, and had so roused 
him to jealous fancies that he had instantly dashed off a 
page or so of insane reproach and distrust which had 
been the beginning of a lover’s quarrel ; some of them 
(always written after he had been specially miserable and 
unreasoning) were queer, half-pathetic mixtures of 
reproach and appeal, full of small dashes of high indig- 
nation, and odd little outbursts of penitence, and with 
such a whimsical, capricious, yet passionate ring in every 
line, that they had seemed less like letters than actual 
speech, and' had almost forced him to fancy that Dolly 
herself was at his side, all in the flush and glow of one | 
of her prettiest remorseful outbreaks. ! 

And these letters from Brabazon Lodge were just as j 

real, so they at least helped him to bear his trials more | 

patiently than he could otherwise have done. She was j 
far more comfortable than she had expected to be, she • 
told him. Her duties were light, and Miss MacDowlas 
not hard to please, and altogether she was not dis- 
satisfied. 

“ But that I am away from you,'" .she wrote, “ I should 
say, Brabazon Lodge was better than the Bilberrys. 
There is no skirmishing with L^dy Augusta, aJt least ; 
and, though- skirmishing with Lady Augusta is not with- 
out its mild excitement, it is not necessary to one’s hap- 
piness, and may be dispensed with. I wonder what Miss 


IN WHICH A SPARK IS APPLIED, 


131 


MacDowlas would say, if she knew why I wear this 
modest ring on my third finger. When I explained to 
her casually that we were old friends, she succinctly re- 
marked that you were a reprobate, and feeling it prudent 
not to proceed with further disclosures, I bent my head 
demurely over my embroidery, and subsided into silence. 
I cannot discover why she disapproves of you, unless it 
is that she has queer, erratic notions about literary peo- 
ple. Perhaps she will alter her opinion in time. As it 
is, it can scarcely matter whether she knows of our en- 
gagement or not. When a fitting opportunity arrives I 
shall tell her, and I don’t say I shall not enjoy the spice 
of the dmouemeizt. In the meantime I read aloud to 
her, talk, work wonders in Berlin wool, and play or sing 
when she asks me, which is not often. In the morning 
we drive out, in the afternoon she enjoys her nap, and in 
the evening I sit decorously intent upon the Berlin won- 
ders, but thinking all the time of you and the parlor in 
Bloomsbury Place, where Tod disports himself in tri- 
umphant indifference to consequences, and where the 
girls discuss the lingering possibilities'of their wardrobes. 
You may tell Mollie we are very grand — we have an im- 
mense footman, who accompanies us in our walks or 
drives, and condescends to open and .shut our carriage- 
door for us, with the air of a gentleman at leisure. I 
am rather inclined to think that this gentleman has cast 
an improving eye upon me, as I heard him observe to 
the housemaid the other day, that I was ‘ a reether hin- 
terestin’ young party,’ which mark of friendly notice has 
naturally cheered me on my lonely way.” 

Among the people who felt the change in the house- 
hold keenly, Ralph Gowan may assuredly be included. 
He missed Dolly as much as any of them did, the fact 


132 


DOLLY. 


was ; only perhaps he missed her in a different manner. 

He did not call quite as often as he had been in the habit 
of doing, and when he did call he was more silent and 
less entertaining. Dolly had always had an inspiring 
effect upon him, and lacking the influence of her pres- 
ence, even Vagabondia lost something of its charm. So, 
sometimes he was guilty of the impoliteness of slipping 
into half-unconscious reveries of a few minutes’ dura- 
tion, and being thus guilty upon one particular occasion, 
he was roused, after a short lapse of time, through the 
magnetic influence of a pair of soft absent eyes fixed 
upon him, which eyes he encountered the instant he 
looked up — as he did — with a start. 

Mollie — the eyes were Mollie’s — dropped her brown 
lashes with a quick, almost petulant motion, turning a 
little away from him ; so he smiled at her with a sense 
of half-awakened appreciation. It was so natural to 
smile so at Mollie. 

“ Why, Mollie,” he said, “ what ails us ? We are not 
usually so dull. We have not spoken to each other for 
ten minutes.” ' j 

The girl did not look at him ; her round, childish | 
cheek was flushed, and her brown eyes were fixed on the I 
fire, half proudly, half with a sort of innocently trans- 
parent indifference. j 

“ Perhaps we have nothing worth saying to each ,j 
other,” she said. “ Everybody isn’t like Dolly.” 

Dolly ! He colored slightly, though he smiled again. 
How did she know he was thinking of Dolly? Was it so ] 
patent a fact that even she could read it in his face ? It 
never occurred to him for an instant that there could . 
exist a reason why the eyes of this grown-up baby should 


IN WHICH A SPAEK IS APPLIED. 


133 


be sharpened. She was such a very baby, with her ready 
blushes and her pettish, lovely face. 

“ And so you miss Dolly, too ?” he said. 

She shrugged her shoulders, as if to imply that she 
considered the question superfluous. 

“Of course, I do,” she answered; “anc^, of course, we 
all do. Dolly is the sort of person likely to be missed.” 

She was so petulant about it that, not understanding 
her, he was both amused and puzzled, and so by degrees 
was drawn into making divers gallant, almost caressing 
speeches, such as might have been drawn from him by 
the changeful mood of a charming, wilful child. 

“ Something has made you angry,” he said. “ What 
is it, Mollie?” 

“ Nothing has made me angry,” she replied. “ I am 
not angry.” 

“ But you look angry,” he returned, “ and how do you 
suppose I am to be interesting when you look angry?” 

“ It cannot matter to you,” said Miss Mollie, “ whether 
I am angry or not.” 

“ Not matter !” he echoed, with great gravity. “ It 
amounts to positive cruelty. Just at this particular mo- 
ment I feel as if I should never smile again.” 

She reddened to her very throat, and then turned 
round all at once, flashing upon him such an odd, little, 
piteous, indignant, indescribable glance as almost startled 
him. 

“You are making fun of me,” she cried out. “You 
always make fun of me. You wouldn’t talk so to Dolly.” 
And that instant burst into tears. 

He was dumbfounded. He could not comprehend it 
at all. He had thought of her as being so completely a 
child, that her troubles were never more than a child’s 


134 


DOLLY. 


troubles, and her moods a child’s moods. He had ad- 
mired her, too, as he would have admired her if she had 
been six years old, and he had never spoken to her as he 
would have spoken to a woman, in the whole course of 
their acquaintance. She was right in telling him that • 
he would not have said such things to Dolly. He was 
both concerned and touched. He was fond of the child 
— indeed, who was not fond of Mollie — pretty, dress- 
loving, charming Mollie ! What could he do but go to 
her and be dangerously penitent, and say a great many 
things easily said, but not soon to be forgotten ! Indeed, 
her soft, nervous, passionate sobs, of which she was so 
much ashamed, her innocent tremor and her pretty, wil- 
ful disregard of his remorse were so new a sensation to 
him, that it must be confessed he was not so discreet as 
he should have been. 

“You never speak so to Dolly,” she persisted, “nor 
to Aim^e, either, and Aim^e is only two years older than 
I am. It is not my fault,” petulantly, “ that I am only 
seventeen.” 

“ Fault !” he repeated after her. “ It is a very charm- 
ing fault, if it is one. Come, Mollie,” looking down at 
her with a tender softness in his perilous dark eyes, 

“ make friends with me again — we ought to be friends. i 
See — let us shake hands !” 

Of course she let him take her hand and hold it lightly 
for a moment as he talked, his really honest remorse at 
his blunder making him doubly earnest and so doubly 
dangerous. She had swept even Dolly out of his mind 
for the time being, and really she occupied his attention 
so fully for the rest of the evening that he had not the 
time to be absent-minded again. In half an hour all 
traces of her tears had fled, and she was sitting on her 


LY WHICH A SPARK IS APPLIED. 


135 


footstool near him, accepting with such evident delight 
his efforts at amusing her, that she quite repaid him for 
his trouble. 

After this t^ere seemed to be some connecting link 
between them. In default of other attractions, he made 
headway with Mollie, and was to some extent consoled. 
He talked to her when he made his visits, and it gradu- 
ally became an understood thing that they were very 
good friends. He won her confidence completely — so 
far, indeed, that she used to tell him her troubles, and 
was ready to accept what meed of praise or friendly 
blame he might think fit to bestow upon her. 

It was a few weeks after the above-recorded episode 
that Griffith arrived one afternoon, in .some haste, with a 
note from Dolly addressed to Aimde, and containing a 
few hurried lines. It had been enclosed in a letter to 
himself 

Somewhat unexpectedly Miss MacDowlas had decided 
upon giving a dinner party, and Dolly wanted the white 
merino, which she ha^ forgotten to put into her trunk 
when she had packed it. Would they make a parcel of 
it and send it by Mollie to Brabazon Lodge ? 

“You will have to go at once, Mollie,” said Aim^e, 
after reading the note. “ It will be dark in an hour, and 
you ought not to be out after dark.” 

“ It is a great deal nicer to be out then,” said Mollie, 
whose ideas of propriety were by no means rigid. “ I 
like to see the shop windows lighted up. Where is my 
hat ? Does anybody know ?” rising from the carpet and 
abandoning Tod to his own resources. 

Nobody did know, of course. It^was not natural that 
anybody should. Hats and gloves and such small fry 


136 


DOLLY. 


were generally left to provide quarters for themselves in 
Bloomsbury Place. 

“ What is the use of bothering,” remarked Mrs. Phil, 
disposing of the difficulty of their non-appearance when 
required, simply, “ they always turn up in time.” 

And in like manner Mollie’s hat “ turned up,” and in 
a few minutes she returned to the parlor, tying the elastic 
under her hair. 

Your hair wants doing,” said Aim^e, having made up 
her parcel. 

“ Yes,” replied Mollie, contentedly, “Tod has been 
pulling himself up by it ; but it would be such a trouble 
to do anything to it just now, and I can tuck it back in 
a bunch. It only looks a little fuzzy, and that’s fashion- 
able. ^Does this jacket look shabby, Aimee ? It is a 
good thing it has pockets in it. I always did like pock- 
ets in a jacket, they are so nice to put your hands in 
when your gloves have holes in them.” 

“ Your gloves oughtn’t to have holes in them,” com- 
mented Aim^e. • 

“ But how can you help it if you haven’t got the money 
to buy new ones ?” asked Mollie. 

“You ought to mend them,” said the wise one. 

“ Mend them !” echoed Mollie, regarding two or three 
bare pink finger-tips dubiously. “They are not worth 
mending.” 

“They were once,” said Aim^e; “and you ought to 
have stitched them before it was too- late. But that is 
always our way,” wrinkling her forehead with her usual 
touch of old-young anxiousness. “We are not practical. 
There ! take the parjcel and walk quickly, Mollie.” 

Once on the street, Mollie certainly obeyed her. With 
the parcel in one arm, and with one hand thrust into the 


m WHICH A SPARK IS APPLIED. 


137 


convenient pocket, she hurried on her way briskly, not 
even stopping once to look at the shop windows. Quite 
unconscious, too, was she of the notice she excited 
among the passers-by. People even turned to look after 
her more than once, as indeed they often did. The scar- 
let scarf twisted round her throat, to hide the frayed 
jacket collar, and the bit of scarlet mixed with the 
trimmings of her hat contrasted artistically with her 
brown eyes, and added brightness to the color on her 
cheeks. It was no wonder that men and women alike, 
in spite of their business-like hurry, found time to glance 
at her, and even turn their heads over their shoulders to 
look backward, as she made her way along the pave- 
ment — it would have been a wonder, indeed, if they had 
not done so. 

It was quite dark when she reached her destination, 
and Brabazon Lodge was brilliantly lighted^ up — so bril- 
liantly, indeed, that when the heavy front door was 
opened, in answer to her ring,, she was a trifle dazzled by 
the flood of brightness in which Dolly’s friend, thd 
“gentleman at leisure,” seemed to stand. 

On stating her errand, she was handed over to a 
female servant, who stood in the hall. 

“ She was to be harsked in,” she heard the footman 
observe, confidentially to the young woman, “ and taken 
to Miss Crewe’s room immediate.” 

So she was led up-stairs, and ushered into a pretty bed- 
room, where she found Dolly sitting by the fire in a 
dressing-gown, with her hair about her shoulders. 

She jumped up the moment Mollie entered, and ran 
to her, brush in hand, to kiss her. 

You are a good child,” she said. “Come to the fire 
and sit down. Did you have any trouble in finding the 


138 


DOLLY. 


house ? I was afraid you would. It was just like me to 
forget the dress, and I never missed it until I began to 
look for it, wanting to wear it to-night. How is Tod?” 

“He has got another tooth,” said Mollie. “ I found it 
to-day. Dolly,” glancing round, “ how nice your room 
is!” 

“Yes,” answered Dolly, checking a sigh, “but don’t 
sigh after the fleshpots of Egypt, Mollie. One doesn’t 
see the dullest side of life at Bloomsbury Place, at least.” 

“ Is it dull here ?” asked Mollie. 

Dolly shrugged her expressive shoulders. 

“ Berlin wool work isn’t exciting,” she said. “ How 
did you leave Griffith ?” 

“ Low-spirited,” replied Mollie. “ I heard him tell 
Aim^e this afternoon that he couldn’t stand it much 
longer.” 

Dolly began to brush her hair, and brushed it very 
much over her face, perhaps because she wished to take 
advantage of its shadow, for most assuredly Mollie 
taught sight of something sparkling amongst the abun- 
dant waves almost like a drop of dew. 

“ Dolly,” she said at last, breaking the awkward little 
sympathetic silence which naturally followed, “ do you 
remember our reading the ' Vicar of Wakefield ?’ ” 

“Yes,” said Dolly, in a mournful little half whisper; 
she could not trust herself to say more. 

“And about the family being ‘ up,’ and then being 
‘down ?’ I always think we are like they were. First it 
is ‘the family up,’ and then ‘the family down.’ It is 
down just now.” 

“Yes,” said Dolly. 

“ It will be ‘ up ’ again, in time,” proceeded Mollie, sagfi- 
ciously. “It always is.” 


m WHICH A SPARK IS APPLIED. 139 

Dolly tried to laugh, but her laugh was a nervous 
little effort which broke off in another sound altogether. 
Berlin wool work and Brabazon Lodge had tried her 
somewhat and — she wanted Griffith. It seemed to 
her just then such a far distant unreal Paradise that 
dream of the modest parlor with the door shut against 
the world, and the green sofa drawn near the fire. Were 
they ever to attain it, or were they to grow old and tired 
out waiting, and hoping against hope ? 

She managed to rally, however, in a few minutes. 
Feeling discouraged and rebellious was not of much use 
— that was one of ^agabondia’s earliest learned lessons. 
And what good was there in making Mollie miserable ? 
So she plucked up spirit and began to talk, and, to her 
credit be it said, succeeded in being fairly amusing afid 
made Mollie laugh outright half a dozen times during 
the remainder of her short stay. It was only a short 
stay, however. She remembered Aimde’s warning at 
last, and rose rather in a hurry. 

“I shall have to walk quickly if I want to get home in 
time for tea,” she said, “so, good-night, Dolly. You had 
better finish dressing.” 

“ So I had,” answered Dolly, “ I am behind time 
already, but I shall not be many minutes, and Miss Mac- 
Dowlas is not like Lady Augusta. Listen ; I believe I 
hear wheels at the door now. It must be later than I 
fancied.” 

It was later than she fancied. As Mollie passed 
through the hall two gentlemen who were ascending the 
steps crossed her path, and seeing the face of one who 
had not appeared to notice her presence, she started so 
nervously that she dropped her glove. His companion 
— a handsome, foreign-looking man — bent down and 


140 


DOLLY. 


picking it up, returned it to her, with a glance of admir- 
ing scrutiny which made her more excited than ever. 
She scarcely had the presence^ of mind to thank him, 
but rushed past him and out into the night in a passion- 
ate flutter of pain and sudden childish anger, inconsist- 
ent enough. 

“ He never saw me !” she said to herself, catching her 
breath piteously. “ He is going to see Dolly. It isn’t 
the party he cares for, and it isn’t Miss MacDowlas — it is 
nobody but Dolly. He has tried to get an invitation 
just because — because he cares for Dolly.” 

She reached home in time for tea, arriving with so 
little breath and so much burning color that they all 
stped at her, and Aimde asked her if she had been 
frightened. 

“No,” she answered, “but I ran half the way because 
I wanted to be in time.” 

She did not talk at tea, and scarcely ate anything, and 
when Griffith came in, at about nine o’clock, he found 
her lying on the sofa, flushed and silent. She said she 
had a headache. 

“ I took Dolly her dress,” she said. “ They are having 
a grand party and — Does Miss MacDowlas know Mr. 
Gowan, Griffith?” 

Griffith started and changed countenance at once. 

“ No,” he answered. “Why?” 

“ He was there,” she said, listlessly. “ I met him in 
the hall as I came out, but he did not see me. He must 
have tried to get an invitation because — well, you know 
how he likes Dolly.” 

And thus, the train having been already laid, was the 
spark applied. 


THE BEGINNING OF THE ENDING, 


141 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE BEGINNING OF THE ENDING. 

I T was some time before Griffith recovered from the 
effects of this simple announcement of Mollie’s. 
Though he scarcely confessed as much to himself, he 
thought of it very much oftener than was conducive to 
his own peace of mind, and in thinking of it he found it 
assuming a greater importance and significance than he 
had at first ^recognised in it, and was influenced accord- 
ingly. He went home to his lodgings after hearing it, 
depressed and heavy of spirit, and the fact was he left 
Bloomsbury Place earlier than usual, because he longed 
to be alone. He could think of nothing but Dolly — 
Dolly in the white merino, shining like a stray star 
among her employer’s guests, and gladdening the eyes 
of Ralph Gowan. He knew so well how she would 
look and how this fellow would follow her in his easy, 
artful fashion, without rendering himself noticeable, and 
manage to be near her through the evening and hold his 
place as if he had a right to it, and he knew, too, how 
natural it would be for Molly’s eyes to light up in her 
pleasure at being saved from boredom, and how her 
innocent gladness would show itself in a score of pretty 
ways. And it was as Mollie said — it was for Dolly’s sake 
that Ralph Gowan was there to-night. 

“She must know that it is so herself,” he groaned. 


142 


DOLLY. 


dropping his head upon the table ; “ but she cannot help 
it, how could she? She would if she could. Yes, I’ll 
believe that. She could never be false to me. I must 
hold fast to that in spite of everything. I should go 
mad if I didn’t. I could never lose you, Dolly, I could 
never lose you !” 

But he groaned again the next moment — groaned from 
the bottom of his desperate heart. He had become tangled 
in yet another web of misery. 

“ It is only another proof of what I have said a thousand 
times,” he cried out, wretchedly. “My claim upon her is 
so weak a one, that this fellow does not think it worth 
regarding. He thinks it may be set aside — they all think 
it may be set aside. I should not wonder,” clenching 
his hand and speaking through his teeth, “ I should not 
wonder if he has laughed many a time at ‘his fancy of 
how it will end, and how easy it will be to thrust the old 
love to the wall!” 

He fairly raged within himself at the thought. 

At this moment, in the first rankling sting of humilia- 
tion and despair, he could almost have struck a murder- 
ous blow at the man whom fortune had set on such a 
pinnacle of pride and insolence, as it seemed to his galled 
fancy. He was not in the mood to be either just or gen- 
erous, and he saw in Ralph Gowan nothing but a man 
who had both the power and will to rival him, and rob 
him of peace and hope for ever. If Dolly had been with 
him, in all probability his wretchedness would have evap- 
orated in a harmless outburst, which would have touched 
the girl’s heart so tenderly that she would have withheld 
nothing of love and consolation which could reassure 
him, and so in the end the tempest would have left no 
wound behind. But as it was left to himself and his imag- 


THE BEGINNING OF THE ENDING. 


143 


inings, every thought held its bitter sting. He was, as it 
were, upon the very brink of an abyss. 

And while this danger was threatening her, Dolly was 
setting herself steadfastly to her task of entertaining her 
employer’s guests, though it must be confessed that she 
found it necessary to summon all her energies. She was 
thinking of Griffith, but not as Griffith was thinking of 
her. She was picturing him looking desolate among the 
group round the fire at Bloomsbury Place, or else work- 
ing desperately and with unnecessary energy among the 
dust and gloom of the dimly-lighted office; and the result 
was that her spirit almost failed. It was quite a relief 
to encounter Ralph Gowan, as she did, on entering the 
room ; he had seen them all laterly, and could enter 
into particulars; and so in her pleasure, it must be owned 
that her face brightened, just as Griffith had fancied it 
would, when she shook hands with him. 

“ I did not hear that you were coming,” she said. 

How glad I am !” which was the most dangerous 
speech she could have made under the circumstances, 
since it was purely on her account that he had diploma- 
tized to obtain the invitation. 

He did not find it easy to release her hand all at once, 
and certainly he lighted up also, and actually flushed 
high with gratified feeling. 

“ Will you let me tell you that it was not Miss Mac- 
Dowlas who brought me here,” he said, in a low voice ; 

though I appreciate her kindness, as a grateful man 
ought. Vagabondia is desolate without you.” 

She tried to laugh, but could not ; her attempt broke 
off in the little almost unconscious sigh, which always 
touched him, he scarcely knew why. 

'‘Is it?” she said, looking up at him without a bit of 


144 


DOLLY. 


the old brightness. Don’t tell them, Mr. Gowan, but 
the fact is I am desolate without it. I want to go home.” 

He felt his heart leap suddenly, and before he could 
check himself he spoke. 

I wish — I wish” he said, “ that you would let me take 
you home.” And the simply sounding words embodied a 
great deal more of tender fancy than a careless observer 
would have imagined; and Dolly recognising the thrill 
in his voice, was half startled. 

But she shook her head, and managed to smile. 

That is not wisdom,” she said. “ It savors of the 
lilies of the field. We cannot quarrel with our bread 
and butter for sentiment’s sake in Vagabondia. Did you 
know that Mollie had paid me a visit this evening? — or 
perhaps you saw her; I think she went out as you 
came in.” 

“ Mollie !” he said, surprisedly ; and then looking half 
annoyed, or at least a trifle disturbed, he added, as if a 
sudden thought had occurred to him : “ then it was 
Mollie, Chandos spoke of” 

Chandos !” echoed Dolly. “ Who is Chandos — and 
what did Chandos say about Mollie ?” 

He glanced across the room to where a tall, handsome 
man was bending over a fussy little woman in pink. 

“That is Chandos,” he said; “and since you spoke of i 
Mollie’s visit, I recollect that as we came into the house ; 
Chandos was behind me and lingered a moment or so, I 
and when he came to me afterward he asked if I had I 
seen the face that passed us as we entered. It had ! 
roused his enthusiasm as far as it can be roused by 
anything.” I 

“ It must have been Mollie,” commented Dolly, and 
she looked at the man on the opposite side of the room, 


THE BEGINNING OF THE ENDING. 145 

uneasily. “ Is he a friend of yours ?” she asked, after 
scrutinizing him for a few seconds. 

Gowan shrugged his shoulders. 

“Not a friend,” he answered, dryly. “An acquaint- 
ance. We have not much in common.” 

“ I am glad to hear it,” was Dolly’s return. “ I don’t 
like Chandos.” 

She could not have explained why she did not like 
him, but certainly she was vaguely repelled and could 
not help hoping that he would never see Mollie again. 
He was just the man to be hazardous to Mollie; hand- 
some, polished, ready of speech and perfect in manner, 
he was the sort af man to dazzle and flatter any igno- 
rant, believ’ng child. 

“ Oh !” she exclaimed, half aloud, “ I could not bear 
to think that he would see her again.” 

She uttered the words quite involuntarily, but Gowan 
heard them, and looked at her in some surprise, and so 
awakened her from her reverie. 

“ Are you speaking of Mollie ?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she answered, candidly, “though I did not 
mean to gpeak aloud. My thoughts were only a mental 
echo of the remark I made a moment ago — that I don’t 
like Chandos. I do not like him at all, even at this dis- 
tance, and I cannot resist feeling that I do not want him 
to see anything more of Mollie. We are not very dis- 
creet, we Vagabonds, but we must learn wisdom enough 
to shield Mollie.” And she sighed again. 

“ I understand that,” he said, almost tenderly, so sym- 
pathetically, in fact, that she turned toward him as if 
moved by a sudden impulse. 

“ I have sometimes thought since I came here,” she 
said, “ that perhaps yozi might help me a little, if you 
10 


146 


DOLLY, 


would. She is so pretty, you see, and so young, and, 
through knowing so little of the world and longing to 
know so much, in a childish, half-dazzled way, is so in- 
nocently wi^ul that she would succumb to a novel influ- 
ence more readily than to an old one. So I have thought 
once or twice of asking you to watch her a little, and 
guard her if — if you should ever see her in danger.” 

I can promise to do that much, at least,” he returned, 
smiling. 

She held out her hand impetuously, just as she would 
have held it out to Griffith, and, oh, the hazard of it — 
the hazard of so throwing aside her mock airs and graces 
and showing herself to him just as she showed herself to 
the man she loved — the Dolly whose heart was on her 
lips and whose soul was in her eyes. 

“ Then we will make a ‘ paction ’ of it,” she said. “ Y ou 
will help me to take care of her.” 

For your sake,” he said, “there are few things I would 
not do.” 

So from that time forward he fell into the habit of 
regarding unsuspecting Mollie as his own special charge. 
He was so faithful to his agreement, indeed, that once or 
twice Griffith was almost ready to console himself with 
the thought that perhaps, after all, the child’s beauty and 
tractability would win its way and Gowan would find him- 
self seriously touched at heart. Just now he could see 
that his manner was scarcely that of a lover, but there 
most assuredly was a probability that it might alter and 
become more warm and less friendly and platonic. As to 
Mollie herself, she was growing a trifle incomprehensible; 
she paid more attention to her lovely hair than she had 
been in the habit of doing, and was even known to mend 
her gloves; she was beginning to be more conscious of 


THE BEGINNING OF THE ENDING. 


147 


the dignity of her seventeen years. She complains less 
petulantly of the attentions of Phil’s friends, and accepts 
them with a better grace. The wise one even observes 
that she tolerates Brown, the obnoxious, and permits 
him to admire her — at a distance. » In her intercourse 
with Gowan she is capricious and has her moods. Some- 
times she indulges in the weakness of tiring herself in all 
her small bravery when he is coming, and presents her- 
self in the parlor beauteous and flushed and conscious, 
and is so delectably shy and sweet that she betrays him 
into numerous trifling follies not at all consistent with 
his high position of mentor; and then, again, she is obsti- 
nate, rather incomprehensible, and does not adorn her- 
self at all, and, indeed, is hard enough to manage. 

“You are growing very queer, Mollie,” says Miss 
Aimee, wonderingly. 

To which sage remark Mollie retorts with an odd, 
tremulous, sensitive flush, and most unnecessary warmth 
of manner. 

“I’m not queer at all. I wish you wouldn’t bother so, 
Aimee !’’ 

That very afternoon she came into the room with a 
card in her hand, after going out to answer a summons 
at the door-bell. ^ 

“ Phil,” she said, “ a gentleman wants you. Chandos, 
the card says.” . 

“ Chandos !” read Phil, rising from the comfort of his 
couch, and taking. his pipe out of his mouth. “Who 
knows Chandos — I don’t. It must be some fellow on 
business.” 

And so it proved. He found the gentleman awaiting 
him in the next room, and in a very short time learned 
his errand. Chandos introduced himself — Gerald Chan- 


148 


DOLLY. 


dos, of The Pools, Bedfordshire— who, hearing of Mr. 
Crewe through numerous friends, not specified, and hav- 
ing a fancy — quite the fancy of an uncultured amateur, 
modestly — for pictures and an absorbing passion for art 
in all its forms, had taken the liberty of calling, etc., etc. 

It was very smoothly said, and Chandos, of The Pools, 
being an imposing patrician sort of individual, and free 
from all fopperies or affectations, Phil met his advances 
complacently enough. It was* no unusual thing for an 
occasional patron to drop in after this manner. He had 
no fault to find with a man who, having the good fortune 
to possess money, had the good taste to know how to 
spend it. So he made friends with Chandos, pretty 
much as he had made friends with Gowan — pretty much 
as he would have made friends with any other sufficiently- 
amiable and well-bred visitor to his modest studio. He 
showed him his pictures, and talked art to him, and 
managed to spend an hour with him very pleasantly, 
ending by selling him a couple of tiny spirited sketches, 
which had taken his fancy. It was when he was taking 
down these sketches from the wall that he heard a sort 
of smothered exclamation from the man who stood a 
few feet apart from him, and turning to see what it meant, 

. he saw that he had just discovered the fresh, lovely, 
black-hooded head, with the trail of autumn leaves cling- 
ing to the loose trail of hair — the picture for which 
Mollie had sat as model. It was very evident that 
Chandos, of The Pools, w^as admiring it. 

“Ah!” said he the next minute. “I know this face. 
There can scarcely be two faces like it.” 

Phil left his sketches and came to him, the pleasure he 
felt on the success of his creation warming him up. i 


THE BEGINNING OF THE ENDING. 149 

This picture, with Mollie’s face and head, was a great 
favorite of his. 

“Yes,” he said, standing opposite to it, with his hands 
in his pockets, and critical appreciation in his eyes. 
“You could not very well mistake it. Heads are not 
my exact forte, you know ; but that is Mollie to a tint 
and a curve, and I am rather proud of it.” 

Chandos regarded it steadfastly. 

“And well you may be,” he answered. “Your sister, 
I believe ?” 

“ Mollie !” exclaimed Phil, stepping a trifle aside, to 
get into a better light, and speaking almost abstractedly. 

“ Oh, yes, to be sure ! She is my sister — the young- 
est. There are three of them. That flesh tint is one of 
the best points.” 

And in the meantime, while this apparently trivial 
conversation was being carried on in the studio, Mollie, 
in the parlor, had settled herself upon a stool close to 
the fire, and resting her chin on her hand and her elbow 
on her knee, was looking reflective. 

“That Chandos is somebody new,” ’Toinette remarked. 
“I hope he has come to buy something. I want some 
gold sleeve-loops for Tod. I saw some beauties the 
other day, when I was out.” 

“But you couldn’t afford them if Phil sold two pic- 
tures instead of one,” said Aimde. “ There are so many 
other useful things you need.” 

“ He isn’t a stranger to me,” put in Mollie, suddenly. 
“I have seen him before.” 

“ Who ?” said ’Toinette. She was thinking more of 
Tod’s gold sleeve-loops than of anything else. 

“This Mr. Chandos,” answered Mollie, without look- 
ing up from the fire. “ I saw him at Brabazon Lodge 


150 


DOLLY. 


the night I went to take Dol her dress. He was with 
Mr. Gowan, and I dropped my glove, and he picked it up 
for me. • I was coming out as they were going in.” 

“ I wonder,” said Aim^e, whether Mr. Gowan goes to 
Brabazon Lodge often ?” 

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” answered Mollie, shrugging 
her shoulder. “ How is one to learn ? He wouldn’t be 
likely to tell us. I should think though that he does. 
He is too fond of Dolly ” — with a slight choke in her 
voice — “to stay away, if he can help it” 

“ It’s queer,” commented ’Toinette, “ how men like 
Dolly. She isn’t a beauty, I’m sure ; and for the matter 
of that, when her hair isn’t done up right, she isn’t even 
pretty.” 

“It isn’t queer, at all,” said Mollie, rather crossly; 
“it’s her way. She can make such a deal out of nothing, 
and she doesn’t stand at trouble when she wants to make 
people like her. She says any one can do it, and if is 
only a question of patience ; but I don’t believe her. 
See how frantic Griffith is about her. He is more des- 
perately in love with her to-day than he was at the very 
first, seven years ago.” 

“And she cares more for him. I’m sure,” said Aim^e. 

Mollie’s shoulder went up again. 

“ She flirts with people enough, if she does,” she com- 
mented. 

“Ah!” returned Aim^e, “that is ‘her way,’ as you call 
it, again. Somehow, it seems as if she can’t help it. It 
is as natural to her as the color of her hair and eyes. 
She can’t help doing odd things and making odd speeches 
that rouse people and tempt them into liking her. She 
has done such things all her life, and sometimes I think 
she will do them even when she is an old woman; though, 


THE BEGINNING OF THE ENDING. 


151 


of course, she will do them in a different way. Dolly 
wouldn’t be Dolly without her whimsicalness, any more 
than Dick there, in his cage, would be a canary if he didn’t 
twitter and sing.” 

“ Does she ever do such things to women ?” asked Miss 
Mollie, shrewdly. She was in a singular mood this after- 
noon. 

“Yes,” Aim^e protested, ‘^she does; and what is more, 
she is not different even with children. I have seen her 
take just as much trouble to please Phemie and the little 
Bilberrys as she would take to please Griffith or — or 
Mr. Gowan. And see how fond they were of her. If she 
had cared for nothing but masculine admiration, do you 
think Phemie would have adored her as she did, and those 
dull children would have been so desolate when she left 
them ? No, I tell you. Dolly’s weakness — and it isn’t 
such a very terrible weakness, after all — lies in wanting 
everybody to like her — men, women and children ; yes, 
down to babies and dogs and cats. And, see here Mollie, 
ain’t we rather fond of her ourselves ?” 

“Ye.s,” owned Mollie, staring at the fire; “we are. Fond 
enough.” 

“ And isn’t she rather fond of us?” 

“ Y es, she is — for the matter of that,” acquiesced Mollie. 

“ Yes,” began ’Toinette, and then the sound df footsteps 
upon the staircase interrupting her, she broke off abruptly 
to listen. “ It is Phil’s visitor,” she said. 

Mollie got up from her seat, roused into a lazy sort of 
interest. 

“ I am going to look at him,” she said, and went to the 
window. 

The next minute she drew back blushing. 


152 


DOLLY. 


‘‘He saw me,”' she said. “I didn’t think he could, if I 
stood here in the corner.” 

But he had though ; and more than that, in his admira- 
tion of her dimples and round, fire-flushed cheeks and 
exquisite eyes, had smiled into her face, openly and with- 
out stint, as he passed. 

After tea. Gowan came in. Mollie opened the door for 
him ; and Mollie, in a soft blue dress, and with her hair 
dressed to a marvel, was a vision to have touched any 
man’s fancy. She was in one of her sweet biddable 
moods, too, having recovered herself since the afternoon, 
and when she led him into the parlor, she blushed with- 
out any reason whatever, as usual, and as a consequence 
looked enchanting. 

“ Phil has gone out,” she said. “ ’Toinette is putting 
Tod to bed, and Aimde is helping her; so there is no one 
here but me.” 

Gowan sat down — in Dolly’s favorite chair. » 

“You are quite enough,” he said; “quite enough — for 
me.” 

She turned away, making a transparent little pretence 
of requiring a hand-screen from the mantlepiece, and hav- 
ing got it, she too sat down, and fell to examining a 
wretched little daub at a picture upon it most minutely. 

“ This is* very badly done,” she observed irrelevantly. 
“Dolly did it, and made it up elaborately into this screen 
because it was such a sight. It is just like Dolly, to 
make fun and joke at her own mistakes. She hasn’t a 
particle of talent for drawing. She did this once when 
Griffith thought he was going to get into something that 
would bring him money enough to allow of their being 
married. She made a whole lot of little mats and things 


THE BEGINNING OF TEE ENDING. 


153 


to put in their house when they got it, but Griffith didn’t 
get the position, so they had to settle down again.” 

Good Heavens !” ejaculated Gowan. 

What is the matter ?” she asked. 

He moved a trifle uneasily in his chair. He had not 
meant to speak aloud. 

“An unintentional outburst, Mollie,” he said. “A 
cheerful state of affairs, that.” 

“ What state of affairs ?” she inquired. “ Oh, you 
mean Dolly’s engagement. Well, of course, it has been 
a long one ; but, then, you see, they like each other very 
much. Aimde was only saying this afternoon that they 
cared for each other more now than they did at first.” 

“ Do they ?” said Gowan, and for the time being lapsed 
into silence. 

“ It’s a cross-grained sort of fortune that seems to con- 
trol us in this world, Mollie,” he said, at length. 

Mollie stared at the poor little daub on her hand-screen 
and met his philosophy indifferently enough. 

“ You oughtn’t to say so,” she answered. “ And I 
don’t know anything about it.” 

He laughed — quite savagely for so amiable a young 
man. 

“I!” he repeated. “I ought not to say so, oughtn’t I? 

I think I ought. It is a cross-grained fortune, Mollie. 
We are always falling in love with people who do not 
care for us, or with people w'ho care for some one else, 
or with people who are too poor to marry us, or ” 

“ Speak for yourself,” said Mollie, with a vigor quite , 
wonderful and new in her. “ / am not.” 

And she held he.r screen up between her face and his, 
so that he could not see her. She could have burst into 
a passionate gush of tears. It was Dolly he was think- 


154 


DOLLY. 


ing about — it was Dolly who had the power to make 
him unhappy and sardonic — always Dolly. 

Then you are a wise child, Mollie,” he said. “ But 
you are a very young child yet — only seventeen, isn’t it ? 
Well, it may all come in good time.” 

“ It will not come at all,” she asserted, stubbornly. 

Dolly’s little wretch of a hand-screen was quite trem- 
bling, in her hand, it made her so desperate to feel, as 
she did, that she was of such small consequence to him 
that he could treat her as a child, and make a sort of 
joke of his confidence. But he did not see it. 

“ Ah ! well, you see,” he went on, “ I thought so once, 
but it has come to me nevertheless. The fact is, I am 
crying for the moon, Mollie, as many a wiser and better 
man has done before me.” 

She did not answer, so he rose and walked once or 
twice across the room. When he came back to the fire, 
she had risen too, and was standing up, biting the edge 
of her screen, all flushed, and with a brightness in her 
eyes he did not understand. Poor little soul! she was 
suffering very sharply in her childish way. 

He laid a hand on either of her shoulders, and spoke 
to her gently enough. 

“ Mollie,” he said, let us sit down together and con- 
dole with each other. You are not in a good humor to- 
night, something has rasped you again ; and as for me, 
I am about as miserable, my dear, as it is possible for a 
man with a few thousand a year to be.” 

She tried to answer him steadily, and finding she could 
not, rushed into novel Subterfuge. Subterfuge was a 
novelty to Mollie. 

“ Yes,” she said, lifting the most beauteous of tear-wet 
eyes to his quite eagerly. “Yes, I am crossed, and— 



THE BEGINNING OF THE ENDING. 155 

and something has vexed me. I am getting bad-tem- 
pered, I think. Suppose we do sit down.” 

And then when they did sit down — she on the hearth- 
rug at his feet, he in Dolly’s chair again — she broke out 
upon him in a voice like a sharp little sob. 

“ I know what you are miserable about,” she said. 
“ You are miserable about Dolly.” 

They had never spoken about the matter openly be- 
fore, though he had always felt that if he could speak 
openly to any one, he could to this charming charge of 
his. Such is the keenness of masculiYie penetration. 
And now he felt almost relieved already. The natural 
craving for sympathy of some kind or other, was to 
satisfy itself through the medium of pretty, much-tried 
Mollie. 

“Yes,” he answered, half desperately, half reluctantly. 
“ Dolly is the moon I am crying for — or rather, as I 
might put it more poetically, ‘the bright particular star.’ 
What a good little thing you are to guess at it so soon !” 

“ It didn’t need much guessing at,” she said, curving 
her innocent mouth in a piteous effort to smile. 

He, leaning against the round, padded back of his 
chair, sighed, and as he sighed almost forgot the poor 
child altogether, even while she spoke to him. Having 
all things else, he must still cry for this one other gift, 
and really he felt very dolorous. 

Mollie, pulling her screen to pieces, looked at him 
with a heavy yet adoring heart. She was young enough 
to be greatly moved by his physical beauty, and just now 
she could not turn away from him. His long-limbed, 
slender figure (which, while still graceful and lithe 
enough, was not a model of perfection, as she fondly 
imagined), his pale^ dark face, his dark eyes, even his 


156 


DOLLY. 


rather impolite and uncomplimentary abstraction, held 
fascination for. her. Not having been greatly smiled 
upon by fortune, she had fallen to longing eagerly and 
fearfully for this one gift which had been so freely vouch- 
safed to Dolly, who had neither asked nor cared for it. 
Surely there was some cross-grained fate at work. 

She was very quiet indeed when he at length recol- 
lected himself and roused from his reverie. He looked 
up to find her resting her warm, rose-leaf colored cheek 
on her hand, and concentrating all her attention upon 
the fire again. She was not inclined to talk when he 
spoke to her, and indeed had so far shrunk within 
herself that he found it necessary to exert his powers to 
their utmost before he could move her to anything like 
interest in their usual topics of conversation. In fact, 
her reserve entailed the necessity of a little hazardous 
warmth of manner being exhibited on his part, and in 
the end a few more dangerous, though half jocular, 
speeches were made, and in spite of the temporary dis- 
satisfaction of his previous mood, he felt a trifle reluctant 
to leave the fire and the sweet, unwise face when the time 
came to go. And the truth was it was not the first time 
he had felt so reluctant. 

“ Good-night,” he said to her a few minutes before he 
went out. And then noticing for the twentieth time 
how becoming the soft blue of her dress was and how 
picturesque she was herself even in the unconsciousness 
of her posture, he was tempted to try to bring that queer, 
little, half-resentful glow into her upraised eyes again. 

“ I have often heard your sister make indiscreetly 
amiable speeches to you, Mollie,” he said. “ Did she 
ever tell you that you ought to have been born a sul- 
tana?” 


THE BEGINNING OF THE ENDING. 


157 


She shook her head and pouted a little. 

“I shouldn’t like to be a sultana,” she said. 

What !” he exclaimed. “ Not a sultana in spangled 
slippers and gorgeous robes !” 

“ No,” she answered, with a spice of Dolly in her 
speech. ‘‘ The slippers are great flat things that turn up 
at the toes, and the sultan might buy me for so much a 
pound, and — and I care for other things besides dress.’' 

“ Nevertheless,” he returned, you would have made 
a dazzling sultana.” 

Then he went away and left her, and she sat down 
upon her stool before the fire again and began to pull 
her hair down and let it hang in grand disorder about 
her shoulders and over her face. 

If I am so — so pretty,” she said slowly, to herself, 
people ought to like me, and,” sagaciously, I must 
be pretty or he would not say so.” 

And when she went to her room it must be confessed 
that she crept to the glass and stared at the reflection 
of the face framed in the abundant, falling hair, until 
Aimee, wondering at her quietness, raised her head from 
her pillow, and seeing her, called her to her senses. 

“ Mollie,” she said, in her quietest way, “ you look 
very nice, my dear, and very picturesque, and I don’t 
wonder at your admiring yourself, but if you stand there 
much longer in your bare feet you will have influenza, 
and then you will have to wear a flannel round your 
throat, and your nose will be red, and you won’t derive 
much satisfaction from your looking-glass for a week to 
come.” 


158 


DOLLY. 


CHAPTER IX. 

IN WHICH WE ARE UNORTHODOX. 

S OMETHING,” announced Phil, grinding away indus- 
triously at his colors, “ something is up with Grif. 
Can any of *you explain what it is ?” 

Mollie resting her elbo*ws on the window-ledge turned 
her head over her shoulder, ’Toinette tying Tod’s sleeves 
with red ribbon looked up, Aimde went on with her sew- 
ing, the two little straight lines making themselves visi- 
ble on her forehead between her eyebrows. The fact of 
something being “up” with any one of their circle was 
enough to create a wondering interest. 

“There is no" denying,” Phil proceeded, “that he is 
changed somehow or other. He is not the same fellow 
that he was a few months ago — before Dolly went away.” 

“ It is Dolly he is bothering about,” said Mollie con- 
cisely. 

Then Aim^e was roused. 

“I wish they were married,” she said. “I wish they 
were married and — safe !” 

“Safe!” put in Mrs. Phil. “That is a queer thing to 
say. They are not in any danger, let us devoutly hope.” 
The two wrinkles deepened and the wise one sighed. 

“I hope not,” she answered, bending her small, round, 
anxious face over her sewing, and attacking it vigor- 
ously. 


m WHICH WE ARE UNORTHODOX. 


159 


*‘They never struck me., you know/’ returned Mrs. 
Phil, “as being a particularly dangerous couple, though 
now I think of it I do remember that it has once or 
twice occurred to me that Griffith has been rather stupid 
lately.” 

“It has occurred to me,” remarked Phil, dryly, “that 
he has taken a most unaccountable dislike to Gowan.” 

Mollie turned round to her window again. 

“ Not to put it too strongly,” continued the head of 
the family, “ he hates him like the deuce.” 

And most assuredly he was not far wrong in making 
the assertion. The time had been coming for some time 
when the course of this unimposing story of true love 
was no longer to run smooth, and in these days Griffith 
was in a dangerous frame of mind. Now and then he 
heard of Gowan dropping in to spend a few hours at 
Brabazon Lodge, and nowand then he heard of his good 
fortune in having found in Miss MacDowlas a positive 
champion. He was even a favorite with her, just as he 
was a favorite with many other people. Trivial as the 
past might seem to others, it was absolutely an addi- 
tional sting to Dolly’s much tried lover. Griffith did 
not visit Brabazon Lodge himself, he had given that up 
long ago, indeed had only once paid his respects to his 
relative since her arrival in London. That one visit, 
short and ceremonious as it was, had been enough for 
him. Like many estimable ladies, Miss MacDowlas had 
prejudices of her own which were hard to remove, and 
appearances had been against her nephew. 

“ If he is living a respectable life and so engaged in a 
respectable profession, my dear,” commented Dolly’s 
proprietress, in one of her after conversations on the 
subject, “ why does he look shabby and out at elbows ? 


160 


DOLLY. 


It is my opinion that he is a very disreputable young 
man,” 

'‘She thinks,” wrote Dolly to the victim, “that you 
waste your substance in riotous living.” And it was such 
an exquisite satire on the true state of affairs, that even 
Griffith forgot his woes for the moment, and laughed 
when he read the letter. 

Dolly herself was not prone to complain of Miss Mac- 
Dowlas. She was not so bad as she looked, after all. 
She was obstinate and rigid enough on some points, but 
she had her fairer side and Dolly found it. In a fashion 
of her own Miss MacDowlas was rather fond of her 
companion. A girl who was shrewd, industrious, and 
often amusing, was not to be despised in her opinion, so 
she showed her fair, young hand-maiden a certain amount 
of respect. She had engaged companions before, who 
being entertaining, were not trustworthy, or being trust- 
worthy were insufferably dull. She could trust Dolly 
with the most onerous of her domestic or social charges 
she found, and there was no fear of her small change 
disappearing or her visitors being bored. So the posi- 
tion of that “young person” became an assured and 
decently comfortable one. 

But day by day Griffith was drifting nearer and nearer 
the old shoals of difficulty. He rasped himself with 
miserable imaginings, and was often unjust even toward 
Dolly. Hers was the brightest side of the matter he 
told himself. 

She was sure to find friends — she always did, these 
people would make a sort of favorite of her, and she 
would be pleased because she was so popular among 
them. He could not bear the thought of her ephemeral 
happiness over trifles sometimes. He even fell so low as 


m WHICH WE ARE UNORTHODOX. 161 

that at his worst moments, though to his credit, be it 
spoken, he was always thoroughly ashamed of himself 
afterward. There were times, too, when he half-resented 
her little jokes at their poverty, and answered them bit- 
terly when he wrote his replies to her letters. His chief 
consolation he found in Aim^e, and in fact the sage of 
the family found her hands fuller than ever. Quiet little 
body as she was, she was far-sighted enough to see dan- 
ger in the distance, and surely she did her best to alter 
its course. 

“If you are not cooler,” she would say, “you will work 
yourself into such a fever of unhappiness, that you will 
be doing something you will regret.” 

“That is what I am afraid of,” he would sometimes 
burst forth; “but you must admit, Aimde, that it is a 
pretty hard case.” 

“ Yes,” confessed the young oracle, “I will admit that, 
but being unreasonable Won’t make it any easier.” 

And then the fine little lines would show themselves, 
and she would set herself industriously to the task of 
administering comfort and practical advice, and certainly 
she never failed to cheer him a little, however tempo- 
rarily. 

And sKe did not fail Dolly either. Sage axioms and 
praiseworthy counsel reached Brabazon Lodge in divers 
small envelopes, addressed to Miss Crewe, and invariably 
beginning, “ My dearest Dolly,” and more than once dif- 
ficulty had been averted, and Dolly’s heart warmed again 
i toward her lover, when she had been half- inclined to rebel 
and exhibit some slight sharpness of temper. Only a 
few days after the conversation with which the present 
chapter opens occurred, one of these modestly powerful 
missives was forwarded, and that evening Griffith met 

n 


162 


DOLLY. 


with an agreeable surprise. Chance had taken him into 
the vicinity of Miss MacDowlas’ establishment, and as he 
walked down the deserted road in a somewhat gloomy 
frame of mind, he became conscious suddenly of the 
sound of small, light feet, running rapidly down the foot- 
path behind him. 

“ Griffith !” cried a clear, softly-pitched voice, “ Griffith, 
wait for me.” 

And turning, he saw in the dusk of the winter day a 
little figure almost flying* toward him, and in a few sec- 
onds more Dolly was standing by him laughing and 
panting, and holding to his arm with both hands. 

“ I thought I should never catch you,” she said. “You 
never walked so fast in your life, I believe, you stupid 
old fellow. I couldn’t call out loud, though it is a quiet 
place, and so I had to begin to run. Goodness ! what 
would Lady Augusta have said if she had seen me flying 
after you !” 

And then stopping all at once, she looked up at him 
with a wicked little air of saucy daring. 

“Don’t you want to kiss me ?” she said. “You may, 
if you will endeavor to effect it with despatch before 
somebody comes.” 

She was obliged to resign herself to her fate* then, j 
For nearly two minutes she found herself rendered j 
almost invisible, and neither of them spoke. Then half j 
released, she lifted her face to look at him, and there | 
were tears on her eyelashes, and in her voice, too, though 1 
she was trying very hard to smile. j 

“ Poor old fellow,” she half-whispered. “ Has it seemed 
long since you kissed me last?” 

.He caught her to his breast again in his old, misera- i 
ble, impetuous fashion. i 


IN' WHICH WE ARE UNORTHODOX. 


163 


“ Long !” he groaned. “ It has seemed so long that 
there have been times when it has almost driven me mad. 
Oh, Dolly ! Dolly !” 

She let him crush her in his arms and kiss her again, and 
she nestled against his shoulder for a minute, and putting 
her warm little gloved-hand up to his face, gave it a tiny, 
loving squeeze. But of course that could not last long. 
Miss MacDowlas’ companion might be kissed in the dusk 
two or three times, but genteelly sequestered as was the 
road leading to Brabazon Lodge, some stray footman or 
housemaid might appear on the scene, from some of the 
neighboring establishments at any moment, so she was 
obliged to draw herself away at last. 

“There!” she said, “you must let me take your arm 
and walk on now, and you must tell me all about things. 
I have a few minutes to spare and I have wanted you,” 
heaving a weary little sigh, and holding his arm very 
tightly indeed. 

“Dolly,” he asked, abruptly, “are you sure of that?” 

The other small hand clasped itself across his sleeve 
in an instant. 

“Sure?” she answered. “Sure that I have wanted 
you ? I have been nearly dying for you 1” with some 
affectionate extravagance. 

“ Are you sure,” he put it to her, “quite sure that you 
have not sometimes forgotten me for an hour or so?” 

“No,” she answered, indignantly; “not for a single 
second.” Which was a wide assertion. 

“ Not,” he prompted her somewhat bitterly, “ when 
the MacDowlas gives dinner-parties, and you find your- 
self a prominent feature, ^ young person,’ as you are ? 
Not when you wear the white merino, and ‘ heavy 'swells’ 
admire you openly?” 


164 


DOLLY. 


“ No,” shaking her head in stout denial of the impu- 
tation. “ Never. I think about you from morning until ’ 
night, and the fact w,” in a charming burst of candor, 
‘‘I actually wake in the night and think about you. 
There ! are you satisfied now }” 

It would have been impossible to remain altogether 
unconsoled and unmoved under such circumstances, but 
he could not help trying her again. 

“ Dolly,” he said, “ does Gowan never make you for- 
get me?” 

Then she saw what he meant and flushed up to her 
forehead, drawing her hand away and speaking hotly. 

“ Oh !” she said, “ it is that, is it ?” 

“Yes,” he answered her, “ it is that.” 

Then they stopped in their walk and each looked at 
the other ; Griffith at Dolly with a pale face and much 
of desperate, passionate appeal in his eyes, Dolly at 
Griffith with her small head thrown back in sudden de- 
fiance. 

“ I am making you angry and rousing you, Dolly,” 
he said ; “but I cannot help it. There is scarcely a week 
passes in which I do not hear that he — that fellow — has 
managed to see you in one way or another. He can 
always see you,” savagely. “/ don’t see you once a 
month.” 

“ Ah !” said Dolly, with cruel deliberation, “ this is 
what Aim^e meant when she told me to be careful, and 
think twice before I did things. I see now.” 

I have never yet painted Dolly Crewe as being a 
young person of angelic temperament. I have owned 
that she flirted and had a temper in spite of her Vaga- 
bondian good spirits, good-nature and popularity, so my 
readers will not be surprised at her resenting rather 


IN WHICH WE ARE UNORTHODOX. 165 

sharply, what she considered as being her lover’s lack 
of faith. 

“ I think,” she proceeded, opening her eyes wide and 
addressing him with her grandest air, “ I think I will 
walk the rest of my way alone, if you please.” 

It was very absurd and very tragical in a small way, 
of course, and assuredly ^he ought to have known bet- 
ter, and perhaps she dkl know better, but just now she 
was very fierce and very sharply disappointed. She 
positively turned away as if to leave him, but he caught 
hold of her arm and held her. 

“ Dolly,” he cried huskily, “ you are not going away 
in that fashion. We never parted so in our lives.” 

She half-relented — not quite, but nearly, so very nearly 
that she did not try very hard to get away. It was Grif- 
fith after all who was trying her patience — if Gowan or 
any other man on earth had dared to imply a doubt in 
her she would have routed him magnificently in two 
minutes, but Griffith — ah, well, Griffith was different. 

“ Whose fault is it ?” she asked, breaking down igno- 
miniously. “ Who is to blame ? I never ask you if 
other people make you forget me. I wanted to — to see 
you so much that I — I ran madly after you for a quarter 
of a mile, at the risk of being looked upon as a lunatic 
by any one who might have chanced to see me. But 
you don’t care for that. I had better have bowed to you 
and passed on if we had met. Let me go !” 

“No,” said Griffith, “you shall not go. God knows 
if I could keep you, you should never leave my arms 
again.” 

“ You would tire of me in a week, if I belonged to 
you in real earnest,” she said, not trying to get away at 
all now, however. 


166 


DOLLY. 


“ Tire of you !” he exclaimed, in a shaken voice. “ Of 
you!'" And all at once he drew her round so that the 
light of the nearest lamp could fall on her face. “ Look 
here !” he whispered, sharply, “ Dolly, I swear to you, 
that if there lives a man on earth, base and heartless 
enough to rob me of you, I will kill him as sure as I 
breathe the breath of life ?” 

She had seen him impassioited enough often before, 
but she had never seen him in as wild a mood as he was 
when he uttered these words. She was so frightened 
that she broke into a little cry, and put her hand up to 
his lips. 

“Griffith!” she said, “Grif! — dear old fellow. You 
don’t know what you are saying. Oh 1 don’t — don’t 1” 

Her horror brought him to his senses again, but he 
had terrified her so that she was trembling all over, and 
clung to him nervously when he tried to console her. 

“ It isn’t like yc>u to speak in such a way,” she faltered, 
in the midst of her tears. “ Oh, how dreadfully wrong 
things must be getting, to make you so cruel I” 

It took so long a time to re-assure and restore her to 
her calmness, that he repented his rashness a dozen 
times. But he managed to comfort her at length, though 
to the last she was tearful and dejected, and her voice 
was broken with soft, sorrowful little catchings of the 
breath. 

“ Don’t let us talk about Ralph Gowan,” she pleaded, 
when he had persuaded her to walk on with him again. 
“ Let us talk about ourselves — we are always safe when we 
talk about ourselves,” with an innocent, mournful smile. 

And so they talked about themselves. He would 
have talked of anything on earth to please her then. 
Talking of themselves, of course, implied talking non- 


IN WHICH WE ARE UNORTHODOX. 


167 


sense— affectionate, sympathetic nonsense, but still non- 
sense; and so, for awhile, they strolled on together, and 
were as tenderly foolish and disconnected as two people 
could possibly be. 

But, in spite of her resolution to avoid the subject, 
Dolly could not help drifting back to Ralph Gowan. 
“ Griffith,” she said, plaintively, “ you are very jealous 
of him.” 

I know that,” he answered. 

“But, don’t you kitow^' in desperate appeal, “that 
there 'isn’t the slightest need for yoh to be jealous of 
anybody.” 

“ I know,” he returned, dejectedly, “that I am a very 
wretched fellow sometimes.” 

“ Oh, dear !” sighed Dolly. 

“ I know,” he went on, “ that seven years is a long 
probation, and- that the prospect of another seven, or 
another two, for the matter of that, would drive me mad. 
I know I am growing envious and distrustful ; I know 
that there are times when I hate that fellow so savagely 
that I am ashamed of myself. Dolly, what has he ever 
done that he should saunter on the sunny side, clad in 
purple and fine linen all his life ? The money he throws 
a\^ay in a year would furnish the house at Putney.” 

“Oh, dear!” burst forth Dolly. “You are going 
wrong. It is all because I am not there to take care of 
you, too. Those are not the sentiments of Vagabondia, 
Grif” 

“ No,” dryly ; “ they are of the earth, earthy.” 

Dolly shook her head dolefully. 

“Yes,” she acquiesced; “and they are a bit shabby, 
too. You are going down, Grif. You never used to be 
shabby. None of us were ever exactly that, though we 


168 


DOLLY. 


•used to grumble sometimes. We used to grumble, not 
because other people had things, but because we hadn’t 
them.” 

“ I am getting hardened, I suppose,” bitterly. “And it 
is hardly to be wondered at, in my opinion.” 

“ Hardened !” She stopped him that moment, and 
stood before him, holding his arm and looking up at 
him. “ Hardened !” she repeated. “ Grif, if you say 
that again, I will never forgive you. What is the good 
of our love for each other if it won’t keep our hearts 
soft ? When we get hardened we shall love each other 
no longer. What have we told each other all these 
years ? Haven’t we said that so long as we had one 
another we could bear anything, and not envy other peo- 
ple ? It wasn’t all talk and sentiment, was it ? It wasn’t 
on my part, Grif I meant it then, and I mean it now, 
though I know there are many good, kind-hearted peo- 
ple in the world who would not understand it, and would 
say I was talking unpractical rubbish, if they heard me. 
Hardened ! Grif, while you have me, and I have you, 
and there is nothing on our two consciences ? Why, it 
sounds” — with another most dubious shake of her small 
head — “ it sounds as if you wouldn’t care about the house 
at Putney?” ^ 

He was conquered, of course ; beforq^she had spoken 
a dozen words he had been conquered ; but this figure 
of his not caring for the house at Putney broke him 
utterly. He did not look very hardened when he an- 
swered her. 

“ Dolly,” he said, “ you are an angel ! I have told you 
so before, and it may be a proof of the barrenness of 
my resources, to tell you so again, but it is true. God 
forgive me, my precious ! I should like to see the man 


m WHICH WE ARE UNORTHODOX; 


169 


whose heart could harden while such a woman loved 
him.” 

It was a pretty sight to see her put her hand on his 
shoulders, and stand on tiptoe to kiss him, in her honest, 
earnest way, without waiting for him to ask her. 

“ Ah !” she said, “ I knew it wasn’t true,” and then still 
letting her hands rest on his shoulders, she burst forth 
in her tender, impulsive way again. “ Grif,” she said, 
“ I don’t think I am very wise, and I know I am not 
very thoughtful. I do things often that it would be bet- 
ter to leave undone — I am fond of making the Philis- 
tines admire me, and I sometimes teaze you, but, dear 
old fellow, right deep down at the bottom of my heart,” 
faltering slightly, “ I do — do want to be a good woman, 
and there is never a night passes— though I never told 
you so before — that I do not pray to God to let me help 
you and let you help me, to be tender, and faithful, and 
true.” 

It was the old stbry — love was king. Wisdom to the 
winds ! Practicality to the corners of the earth ! Pru- 
dence, power and grandeur hide your diminished heads! 
Here were two people who cared nothing for you and 
who flung you aside without a fear as they stood together 
under the trees in the raw evening air — one a penniless 
little hired entertainer of elderly ladies, the oth$r an 
equally impecunious bondsman in a dingy office. 

They were quite happy — even happy when time warned 
them that they must bid each other good-night. They 
walked together to the gates of Brabazon Lodge, and 
parted in an actual state of bliss. 

“Good-night,” said Dolly. “Be good — as somebody 
wise once said — ‘ Be good and you will be happy.’ ” 

“Good-night,” an.swered Griffith; “but mightn’t he 


170 


DOLLY. 


have put it the other way, Dolly, ‘Be happy and you 
will be good — because you can’t help it.’ ” 

He had his hand on her shoulder, this time, and as she 
laughed she put her face down so that her soft, warm 
cheek nestled against it. 

“But he didn’t put it that way,” she objected. “And' 
we must take wisdom as it comes. There ! I must go 
now,” rather in a hurry. “Some one is coming — see !” 

“Confound it!” he observed devoutly. “Who is it?” 

“ I don’t know,” answered Dolly ; “ but you must let 
me go. Good-night, again.” 

He released her, and she ran in through the gate, and 
up the gravel walk, and so he was left to turn away and 
pass the intruder with an appearance of nonchalance. 
And pass him he did, though whether with successful 
indifference or not, one can hardly say, but in passing 
him he looked up, and in looking ^up he recognised 
Ralph Gowan. 

“Going to see her,” he said, to himself, just as poor 
Mollie had said the same thing, and just with the same 
heartburn. “The dev — But, no,” he broke off sharply, 
“I won’t begin again. It is as she says — the blessed 
little darling I — it is shabby to be down on him because 
he has the best of it.” And he went on his way — not 
rejoicing, it is true — but still trying to crush down a by 
no means unnatural feeling of rebellion. 


IN SLIPPERY PLAGES. 


171 


CHAPTER X. 

IN SLIPPERY PLACES. 

T he wise one sat at the window and looked out. Not 
that there was so much to look out at, either. The 
view commanded by Bloomsbury Place was not a specially 
imposing or attractive one. P^our or five tall, dingy 
houses, with solitary scrubby shrubs in their small front 
slips of low-spirited looking gardens, four or five dingy 
and tall houses without the scrubby shrubs in their small 
front slips of low-spirited looking gardens, rows of Vene- 
tian blinds of various shades, and one or two lamp-posts 
— not much to enliven the prospect. 

The inhabitants of the houses in Bloomsbury Place 
were not prone to" sitting at their front windows, accord- 
ingly, but this special afternoon, the, weather being foggy, 
the wise one finding herself alorie in the parlor, had left 
the fire just to look at this same fog, though it was by no 
means a novelty. The house was very quiet. ’Toinette 
was out, and so was Mollie, and Tod was asleep, lying 
upon a collection of cushions on the hearth-rug, with two 
fingers in his mouth, his exquisite, round, baby face turned 
up luxuriously to catch the warmth. 

The fact was the wise one was waiting for Mollie, who 
had gone out a few hours before to ekecute divers com- 
missions of a domestic nature. 

“ She might have been back in half the time,” mur- 
mured the family sage, who sat on the carpet, flattening 


172 


DOLLY. 


her small features against the glass. “ She might have 
done what she has to do in less than half the time, but I 
knew how it would be when she went out. She is look- 
ing in at the shop windows and wishing for things. I 
wish she wouldn’t. People stare at her so, and I don’t 
wonder. I am sure I cannot help watching her myself, 
sometimes. She grows prettier every day of her life, 
and she is beginning to know that she does, too.” 

Five minutes after this the small face was drawn away 
from the window-pane with a sigh of relief 

“ There she is now. What a time she has been ! Who 
is with her, I wonder ? I cannot see whether it is Phil 
or Mr. Gowan, it is getting so dark. It must be Mr. 
Gowan. ’Toinette would be with them if it was Phil.” 

“Why, Mollie,” she exclaimed, when the door opened, 
“I saw somebody with you, and I thought it was Mr. 
Gowan. Why didn’t he come in? Don’t waken Tod.” 

Mollie came in rather hurriedly, and going to the fire 
knelt down before it, holding out her hands to warm 
them. Her cheeks were absolutely brilliant with color 
and her eyes were bright ; altogether, she looked as if 
she was a trifle excited, and had found her walk by no 
means an unpleasant one. 

“It wasn’t Mr. Gowan,” she answered, “Ugh! how 
cold it is — not frost)'-, you know, but that raw sort of 
cold, Aimee. I would rather have the frost myself, 
wouldn’t you?” 

But Aimee was not thinking of the weather. 

“ Not Mr. Gowan I” she ejaculated. “Who was it, then?” 

Mollie crept nearer to the fire and gave another little 
shudder. 

’ “ It was — somebody else,” she returned, with a tri- 
umphant little half laugh. “ Guess who I” 


m SLIPPERY PLACES. 


173 


“Who !” repeated Aimee. “ Somebody else ! It was 
not any one I know.” 

“It was somebody Phil knows.” 

The wise one arose and came to the fire herself. 

“ It was some one taller than Brown !” 

“ Brown !” echoed Mollie, with an air of supreme con- 
tempt. “ He is twice as tall. Brown is only about five 
feet high, and he wears an overcoat ten times too big for 
him, and it flaps — yes, it flaps about his odious little 
heels. I should think it wasn’t Brown. It was a gen- 
tleman.” 

The wise one regarded her pretty, scornful face dubi- 
ously. 

“ Brown isn’t so bad as all that implies, Mollie,” she 
said. “ His coat is the worst part of him. But if it 
wasn’t Brown and it wasn’t Mr. Gowan, who was it ?” 

Mollie laughed again, and shrugged her shoulders 
again, and then she looked up at her small inquisitor 
charmingly defiant. 

“It was — Mr. Ghandos!” she confessed. 

Aimde gazed at her for a moment in blank amazement. 

“But,” she objected, “you don’t know him any more 
than I do. You have only seen him once through the 
winter, and you have never been introduced to him.” 

“ I have seen him twice,” said Mollie. “ Don’t you 
recollect my telling you that he picked up my glove for 
me the night I carried Dolly’s dress to Brabazon Lodge, 
and,” faltering a little and dropping her eyes, “ he intro- 
duced himself to me. He met me in town. I was pass- 
ing through the Arcade, and he stopped to ask about 
Phil. He apologized, of course, you know, for doing it, 
but he said he was very anxious to know when Phil 
would be at home, and — and perhaps I would be so kind 


174 


DOLLY. 


as to tell him. He wants to see him about a picture. 
And — then, you know, somehow or other, he said some- 
thing else, and — and I answered him — and he walked to 
the gate with me.” 

“ He took a great liberty,” said Aim^e. “And it was 
very imprudent in you to let him come. I don’t know 
what you could be thinking of. The idea of picking up 
people in the street like that, Mollie ; you must be crazy.” 

“ I couldn’t help it,” returned Mollie, not appearing at 
all disturbed. “ He knows Phil and he knows Dolly — a 
little. And he is very nice. He wants to know us all. 
And he says Mr. Gowan is one of his best friends. I 
liked him myself” 

“ I dare say you did,” despairingly. “ You are such a 
child. You would like the man in the moon or a Kaffre 
chief ” 

“ That is not true,” interposed the delinquent. “ I don’t 
know about the man in the moon. He might be well 
enough — at any rate he would be travelled and a nov- 
elty, but Kaffre chiefs are odorous. Don’t you remember 
those we saw last winter ?” 

“ Mollie,” said Aim^e, “ you are only jesting because 
you are ashamed of yourself You know you were 
wrong to let that man come home with you.” 

Then Mollie hung her head and made a lovely rebel- 
lious move. 

“ I don’t care,” she said ; “ if it wasn’t exactly correct, 
it was nice. But that is always the way,” indignantly, 
“ nice things are always improper.” 

Here was a defection for you. The oracle quite shud- 
dered in her discreet disapproval. 

“If you go on in that way,” she said, “you will be 
ending by saying that improper things are always nice.” 


IN SLIPPERY PLACES. 


175 


Never mind how I end,” observed the prisoner at the 
bar. “You have ended by wakening Tod,” which re- 
mark terminated the conversation somewhat abruptly. 

A day or so later came Chandos — upon business, so 
he said, but he remained much longer than his errand 
rendered necessary, and by some chance or other it came 
to pass that Phil brought him into the parlor, and intro- 
duced him to their small circle, in his usual amiable, 
informal manner. Then he was to be seen fairly, and 
prepossessing enough he was. Mollie sitting in her 
corner in the blue dress, and looking exquisite and guile- 
less in her own inimitable style, was very .demurely silent 
at first, but in due time Aimde began to see that she was 
being gradually drawn out, and at last the drawing out 
was such a success, subtle as it was, that she became 
quite a prominent feature in the party, and made so many 
brilliant speeches without blushing, that the family eyes 
began to be opened to the fact that she was really a trifle 
older than she had been a few years ago, after all. The 
idea had suggested itself to them faintly on one or two 
occasions of late, and they were just beginning to grasp 
it, though they were fully as much startled, the truth 
was, as they would have been if Tod had unexpectedly 
roused himself from his infantile slumbers, and mildly 
but firmly announced his intention of studying for the 
ministry or entering a political contest. 

Aim^e was dumbfounded. She had not expected this. 
She was going to have her hands full it was plain. She 
scarcely wondered now at her discovery of two evenings 
before. And then she glanced slyly across the room 
again, and took it all in once more. Mollie, bewitching 
in all the novelty of her small effort at coquetry— Chan- 


176 


DOLLY. 


dos leading her on, and evidently enjoying the task he 
had set himself intensely. 

It was quite a new Mollie who was left to them after 
their visitor was gone. There was a touch of triumph 
and excitement in the pretty flushed face, and a ghost of 
defiance in the brown eyes. She was not quite sure that 
young Dame Prudence would not improve the occasion 
with a short homily. 

So she was a trifle restless. First she stood at the 
window humming an air, then she came to the table and 
turned over a few sketches, then she knelt down on pre- 
tence of teazing Tod. 

But impulse was too much for .her. She forgot Tod 
in a few minutes and fell into a sitting position, folding 
her hands idly on the blue garment. 

“I knew he would come,” she said, abstractedly. 
Then Dame Prudence addressed her. 

“ Did you ?” she remarked. “ How did you?” 

She started and blushed up to her ears. 

“ How?” she repeated. “Oh, I knew!” 

“Perhaps he told you he would,” put in Dame P. 
“Did he?” 

“Aimde,” was the rather irrelevant reply, rather sud- 
denly made, “ do you like him ?” 

“I never judge people,” primly enunciated, “upon first 
acquaintance. First impressions are rarely to be relied 
upon.” 

“That’s a nice speech,” in her elder sister’s most shock- 
ingly flippant manner, “and it sounds well, but I have 
heard it before — thousands of times. People always say 
it when they want to be specially disagreeable, and would 
like to cool you down. There is the least grain of Lady 
Augusta in you, Aimee.” 


IN SLIPPERY PLACES. 


177 


“And considering that Lady Augusta is the most un- 
pleasant person we know, is a nice speech,” returned 
the oracle. 

“Oh, well, I only said ‘a grain,’ and a grain is not 
much.” 

• “ It is quite enough.” 

“Well,” amiably, “suppose we say half a grain.” 

“Suppose we say you are talking nonsense.” 

Mollie’s air was Dolly’s own as she answered her — 
people always said she was oddly like Dolly, despite the 
fact that Dolly was not a beauty at all. 

“ There may be something in that,” she said. 

“Suppose we admit it and return to the subject. Do 
you think he is nice, Aimde ?” 

“ Do you ?” 

“Yes, I do,” but without getting rose-colored this 
time. 

Aimee looked at her calmly, but with some quiet 
scrutiny in her glance. 

“As nice,” she put it to her, “as nice as Ralph 
Gowan ?” 

She grew rose-colored then in an instant up to her 
ears again and over them, and she turned her face aside 
and plucked at the hearth-rug with nervous fingers. 

“Well?” suggested Aim^e. 

“ He is as handsome and — as tall, and he dresses as 
well.” 

“ Do you like him as well ?” said Aimee. 

“Ye-es — no. I have not known him long enough to 
tell you.” 

“Well,” returned Aim^e, “let me tell you. As I said 
before, I do not think it wise to judge people from first 
impressions, but this I do know, / don’t like him as I 
12 


178 


DOLLY. 


like Mr. Gowan, and I never shall. He is not to be 
relied upon, that Gerald Chandos ; I saw it in his eyes.” 

And she set her chin upon her hand, and her small, 
round, fair face covered itself all at once with an anxious 
^ cloud. 

She kept a quiet watch upon Mollie after this, and in 
the weeks that followed she was puzzled, and not .only 
puzzled, but baffled outright many a time. This first 
visit of Mr. Gerald Chandos was not his last. His busi- 
ness brought him again and again, and when the time 
came that he had no pretence of business, he was on 
sufficiently familiar terms with them all to make calls of 
pleasure. So he did just as Ralph Gowan had done, 
slipped into his groove of friend and acquaintance unob- 
trusively, and was made welcome as other people were — 
just as any sufficiently harmless individual would have 
been under the same circumstances. There was no 
dragon of high renown to create social disturbances in 
Vagabondia. 

“As long as a man behaves himself, where’s the odds?” 
said Phil ; and no one ever disagreed with him. 

But Mr. Gerald Chandos had scarcely been to the 
house more than three times before Aimde found cause 
to wonder. She discovered that Ralph Gowan was not 
so enthusiastically attached to him after all; and further- 
more she had her reasons for thinking that Gowan was 
rather disturbed at his advent, and would have preferred 
that he had not been ad’opted so complacently. 

“If Dolly was at home,” she said to herself, “I should 
be inclined to fancy he was a trifle jealous ; and if he 
cared just a little more for Mollie, I might think he was 
jealous ; but Dolly is away, and though he is fond of 
Mollie, and thinks her pretty, he doesn’t care for her in 


IJSr SLIPPERY PLACES. 


that way exactly, so there must be some other reason. 
He is not the sort of person to have likes or dislikes 
without reason.” 

In her own sage style she approved of Ralph Gowan 
just as she approved of Griffith. And then, as I have 
said, Mollie puzzled her. It was astonishing how the 
child altered, and how she began to bloom out, and 
. adopt odd, independent, womanly airs and graces. She 
took a new and important position in the household. 
From her post of observation the wise one found herself 
looking on with a smile sometimes, there was such a 
freshness in her style of enacting the role of beauty. 
She struck Phil’s friends dumb now and then with her 
conscious power, and the unhappy Brown suffered him- 
self to be led captive without a struggle. 

“Her ’prentice han’ she tried on Brown,” Dolly had 
said months before, in a wretched attempt at parody ; 
and certainly the tortures of Brown were prolonged and 
varied. But it was her manner toward Chandos that 
puzzled Aimee. Perhaps she was a trifle proud of his 
evident admiration; at all events, she seemed far- from 
averse to ‘it, and the incomprehensible part of the affair 
was that sometimes she allowed him to rival even Ralph 
Gowan. 

“And yet,” commented Aimde, “she likes Ralph 
Gowan the best. She never can help blushing and look- 
ing conscious when he comes or when he talks to her, 
and she is as cool as Dolly when she finds herself with 
Chandos. It is very odd.” 

It was not so easy to manage her as it had used to be, 
Ralph Gowan discovered. She was growing capricious 
and fanciful, and ready to take offence. If they were 
left alone together, she would change her mood every 




DOLLY. 


two minutes. Sometimes she would submit to his old 
jesting, gallant speeches quite humbly and shyly for 
awhile, and then she would flame out all at once in 
anger, half a woman’s and half a child’s. He was 
inclined to fancy now and then that she had never for- 
given him for his first interference on the subject of 
Gerald Chandos, for at the early part of the acquaint- 
ance he did interfere, as he had promised Dolly he , 
would. 

“I am not glad to see that fellow here, Mollie,” he had 
said, the first night he met him at the house. 

She stood erect before him, with her white throat 
straight, and a spark in her eyes. 

“ What fellow ?” she asked. 

“ Chandos,” he answered, coolly and bfiefly. 

Oh !” she returned. ” How is it that when one man 
dislikes another he always speaks of him as ‘that fel- 
low ?’ I know some one who always refers to you as 
‘that fellow.’” 

“ Do you ?” dryly, as before. He knew very well 
who she meant. 

“/ am glad to see ‘that fellow’ here,” she went on. 
“He is a gentleman, and he isn’t stupid. No one else 
comes here who is so amusing. I am tired of Brown & 
Company.” 

“Ah !” he answered, biting his lip. He felt the rebuff, 
if it was only Mollie who gave it him. “Very well then, 
if you are tired of Brown & Company, and would prefer 
to enter into partnership with Chandos, it is none of my 
business, I suppose. I will give you one warning, how- 
ever, because I promised your sister to take care of 
you.” Her skin flamed scarlet at thkt. “That fellow is 


m SLIPPERY PLACES. 


181 


not a gentleman exactly, and he is a very dangerous 
acquaintance for any woman to make.” 

. “ He is a friend of yours,” she interrupted. 

“ That is a natural mistake on your part,” he replied. 
“ Natural, but still a mistake. He is not a friend of mine. 
As I before observed, he is not exactly a gentleman — 
not to put too fine a point upon it — in a moral point of 
view. We won’t discuss the matter further.” 

They had parted horribly bad friends that night. Mollie 
was restive under his cool decisiveness for various rea- 
sons, he was irritated because he felt he had failed, and 
had lost ground instead of gaining it. So sometimes 
since, he had fancied that she had not wholly forgiven 
him, and yet there were times when she was so softly 
submissive, that he felt himself in some slight danger of 
being Sls much touched and as fairly bewitched as he was 
when Dolly turned her attention to him. * Still she was 
frequently far from amiable, and upon more than one 
occasion he found her not precisely as polite as she might 
have been. 

“ You are not as amiable, Mollie,” he said to her once, 
“as you used to be. We were very good friends in the 
old days. I suppose you are outgrowing me. I should 
be afraid to offer you a bunch of camelias now as a token 
of my affection.” 

He smiled down at her indolently as he said it, and 
before he had finished he began to feel uncomfortable. 
Her eyelids drooped and her head drooped, and she 
looked sweetly troubled. 

“ I know I am not as good as I used to be,” she 
admitted. “ I know it without being told. Sometimes,” 
very suddenly, I think I must be growing awfully 
wicked.” 


182 


DOLLY. 


^‘Well,” he commented, “at least one must admit that 
is a promising state of mind, and augurs well for future 
repentance.” 

She shook her head. 

“ No, it doesn’t,” she answered him, “and that is the 
bad side of it. I am getting worse every day of my life.” 

“ Is it safe,” he suggested cynically ; “ is it safe for an 
innocent individual to cultivate your acquaintance? 
Would it not be a good plan to isolate yourself from 
society until you feel that the guileless ones may approach 
you without fear of contamination? You alarm me.” 

She lifted up her head, her eyes flashing. 

“ You are safe,” she said, “ so it is rather premature to 
cry ^wolf’ so soon.” 

“ It is very plain that you are outgrowing me,” he 
returned. “ Dolly herself could not have made 3, more 
scathing remark.” 

But fond as he was of tormenting her, he did not want 
to try her too far, and so he endeavored to make friends. 
But his efforts at reconciliation were not a success. She 
was not to be coaxed into her sweet mood again, indeed 
she almost led him to fear that he had wounded her 
irreparably by his jests. Arid yet when he at last con- 
sulted his watch, and went to the side-table for his hat 
and gloves, he turned round to find her large eyes fol- 
lowing him in an odd, wistful sort of way. 

“ Are you going?” she asked him at length, a half re- 
luctant appeal in her voice. 

“ I am due at Brabazon Lodge now,” he answered. 

She said no more after that, but relapsed into silence, 
and let him go without making an effort to detain him, 
receiving his adieus in her most indifferent style. 

But she was cross and low-spirited when he was gone, 


m SLIPPERY PLACES. 


183 


and Aim^e coming into the room with her work, found 
her somewhat hard to deal with, and indeed was moved 
to tell her so. 

“You are a most inexplicable girl, Mollie,” she said. 
“ What crotchet is troubling you now ?” 

“ No crotchet at all,” she answered, and then all at 
once she got up and stood before the mantle-glass, look- 
ing at herself fixedly. 

“ Aimee,” she said, “ if you were a man should you 
admire me ?” 

Aimee gave her a glance, and then answered her with 
sharp frankness. 

“ Yes, I should,” she said. 

She remained standing for a few minutes, taking a sur- 
vey of herself, front view, side view, and even craning 
her pretty throat to get a glimpse of her back, and then 
a pettish sigh burst from her, and she sat down again at 
her sister’s feet, clasping her hands about her knees in a 
most desperately unorthodox position. 

“ I should like to have a great deal of money,” she 
said after awhile, and she frowned as she said it. 

“ That is a startling observation,” commented Aimde, 
“and shows great singularity of taste.” 

Mollie frowned again, and shrugged one shoulder, but 
otherwise gave the remark small notice. 

“ I should like,” she proceeded, “ to have a carriage, 
and to live in a grand house, and go to places. I should 
like to marry somebody rich,” and having blurted out 
this last confession, she looked half ashamed of herself. 

“ Mollie,” said Aim^e, solemnly dropping her hands 
and her work upon her lap, “ I am beginning to feel as 
Dolly does ; I am beginning to be afraid you are going 
to get yourself into serious trouble.” 


184 


DOLLY. 


Then this overgrown baby of theirs, who had so sud- 
denly astonished them all by dropping her babyhood 
and asserting herself a woman, said something so start- 
ling that the wise one fairly lost her breath. ^ 

“ If I cannot get what I want,” she said, deliberately, 
f “ I will take what I can get.” 

“ You are going out of your mind,” ejaculated Aim^e. 
“ It doesn’t matter if I am,” cried the romantic little 
goose, positively crushing the oracle by breaking down 
all at once, and flinging herself upon the hearth-rug in a 
burst of tears. “ It doesn’t master if I am. Who cares 
for me r 


A WIND WHICH BLOWS NOBODY GOOD, 185 


CHAPTER XL 

IN WHICH COMES A WIND WHICH BLOWS NOBODY GOOD. 

T hree weeks waited the wise one, keeping her 
eyes on the alert and her small brain busy, but pre- 
serving an owl-like silence upon the subject revolving 
in her mind. But at the end of that time she marched 
into the parlor one day, attired for a walk, and aston- 
ished them all by gravely announcing her intention of 
going to see Dolly. 

“ What are you going for ?” said Mrs. Phil. 

“ Rather sudden, isn’t it ?” commented Mollie. 

*‘-rm going on business,” returned Aimde, and she 
buttoned her gloves and took her departure, without en- 
lightening them further. 

Arriving at Brabazon Lodge, she found Miss Mac- 
Dowlas out and Dolly sitting alone in the overgrown, 
handsome parlor, with a letter from Griffith in her hand 
and tears in her eyes. 

Her visitor walked to the hearth, her small, round 
face wrinkling portentously, and kissed her with an air 
of affectionate severity. 

“ I don’t know,” she began, comprehending matters at 
a glance ; “ I am sure I don’t know what I am to do with 
you all. You are in trouble, now.” 

“Take off your things,” said Dolly, with a helpless 
little sob, “ and — and then I will tell you all about it. 


186 


DOLLY. 


You must stay and have tea with me. Miss MacDow- 
las is away, and I — am all alone, and — and, oh, Aim^e !” 

The hat and jacket were laid aside in two minutes, 
and Aimde came back to her and knelt .down. 

“ Is there anything in your letter you do not want me 
to see?” she asked. 

“ No,” answered Dolly, in despair, and tossed it into 
her lap. ' *"■ 

It was by no means a new story, but tfiis time the 
Fates seemed to have conspired against her more mali- 
ciously than usual. A few days before Grif had found 
himself terribly dashed in spirit, and under the influence 
of impulse had written to her. Two or three times in 
one day he had heard accidental comments upon Gowan’s 
attentions to her, and on his return to his lodgings at 
night he had appealed to. her in a passionate, haste-blotted 
epistle. 

He was not going to doubt her again, he said, and he 
was struggling to face the matter coolly, but he wanted 
to see her. It would be worse than useless to call upon 
her at the Lodge, and have an interview under the dis- 
approving eyes of Miss MacDowlas, and so he had 
thought they might meet again by appointment, as they 
had done before by chance. And Dolly had acquiesced 
at once. But Fortune was against her. Just as she had 
been ready to leave the house, Ralph Gowan had made 
his appearance, and Miss MacDowlas had called her 
down-stairs to entertain him. 

‘H would not have cared about telling,” cried Dolly, 
in tears, “but I could not tell her, and so I had to stay, 
and — actually — sing — Aim^e. Yes, sing detestable love- 
sick songs, while my own darling, whom I W'as dying to 
go to, was waiting outside in the cold. And that was 


A WIND WHICH BLOWS NOBODY GOOD. 187 

not the worst, either. He was just outside in the road, 
and when the servants lighted the gas he saw me through 
the window. And I was at the piano” — in a burst — 
“and Ralph Gowan was standing by me. And so he 
went home and wrote that!' signifying with a gesture the 
letter Aimde held. “And everything is wrong again.” 

It was very plain that everything was wrong again. 
The epistle in question was an impetuous, impassioned 
effusion enough. He was furious against Gowan, and 
bitter against everybody else. She had cl^eated and 
slighted and trifled with him when he most needed her 
love and pity ; but he would not blame her, he could only 
blame himself for being such an insane, presumptuous 
fool as to fancy that anything he had to offer could be 
worthy of any woman. What had he to offer, etc., etc., 
for half a dozen almost illegible pages, dashed and crossed, 
and all on fire with his bitterness and pain. 

Having taken it from Aimde, and read it for the twen- 
tieth time, Dolly fairly wrung her hands over it. 

“If we were only just together!" she cried. “ If we 
only just had the tiniest, shabbiest house in the world, 
and could be married and help each other ! He doesn’t 
mean to be unjust or unkind, you know, Aimde, he would 
be more wretched than I am if he knew how unhappy 
he has made me.” 

“Ah !” sighed Aim^e. “ He should think of that before 
he begins.” 

Then she regained possession of the letter, and 
smoothed out its creases on her knee, finishing by fold- 
ing it carefully and returning it to its envelope, looking 
very grave all the time. 

“Will you lend me this?” she said at last, holding the 
epistle up. 


188 


DOLLY. 


“What are you going to do with it?” asked Dolly, 
disconsolately. 

“ I am going to ask Griffith to read it again. I shall 
be sure to see him to-morrow night.” 

“Very well,” answered Dolly; “but don’t be too hard 
upon him, Aimee. He has a great deal to bear.” 

“ I know that,” said Aimde. “ And sometimes he bears 
it very well ; but just now he needs a little advice.” 

Troubled as she was, Dolly laughed at the staid expres- 
sion on her small, discreet face ; but even as she laughed 
she caught the child in her arms and kissed her. 

“What should we do without you!” she exclaimed. 
“We need some one to keep us all straight, we Vaga- 
bonds ; but it seems queer that such a small wiseacre as 
you should be our controlling power.” 

The mere sight of the small wiseacre had a comfort-, 
ing effect upon her. Her spirits began to rise, and she 
so far recovered herself as to be able to look matters in 
the face more cheerfully. There was so much to talk 
about, and so many questions to ask, the truth was that 
it would have been impossible to remain dejected and 
uninterested. It was not until after tea, however, that 
Aimde brought her “ business ” upon the carpet. She 
had thought it best not to introduce the subject during 
the earlier part of the evening; but when the tea-tray 
was removed, and they found themselves alone again, she 
settled down, and applied herself at once to the work 
before her. 

“ I have not told you yet what I came here for this 
afternoon,” she said. 

“ You don’t mean to intimate that you did not come, 
to see me I” said Dolly. 

“ I came to see you, of course,” decidedly ; “ but I 


A WIND WHICH BLOWS NOBODY GO OD. 1 89 


came to see you for a purpose. I came to talk to you 
about Mollie.” 

Dolly almost turned pale. 

“ Mollie !” she exclaimed. What is the trouble about 
Mollie ?” 

“ Something that puzzles me,” was the answer. “ Dolly, 
do you know anything about Gerald Chandos ?” 

“ What !” said Dolly. “ It is Gerald Chandos, is it ? 
He is not a fit companion fo.r her, I know that much.” 

And then she repeated word for word the conversa- 
tion she had had with Ralph Gowan. 

Having listened to the end, Aim^e shook her head. 

. “I like Mr. Gowan well enough,” she said, “but he 
has been the cause of a great deal of trouble among us, 
without meaning to be, and I am afraid it is not at an 
end yet.” 

They were both silent for a few moments after this, 
and then Dolly, looking up, spoke with a touch of reluc- 
tance. 

“ I dare say you can answer me a question I should 
like ‘to ask you ?” she said. 

“ If it is about Mollie, I think I can,” Aim^e returned. 

“ You have been with her so long,” Dolly went on, 
two tiny lines showing themselves upon her forehead 
this time, “ and you are so quick at seeing things, that 
you must know what there is to know. And yet it 
hardly seems fair to ask. Ralph Gowan goes to Blooms- 
bury Place often, does he not?” 

• “ He goes very often, and he seems to care more for 
Mollie than for any of the rest of us.” 

“Aimde,” Dolly said next, “does — this is my ques- 
tion — does Mollie care for him?”* 

“ Yes, she does,” answered Aim^e. “ She cares for 


190 


DOLLY. 


him so much that she is making herself miserable about 
him.” 

“ Oh, dear !” cried Dolly. “ What ” 

Aimde interrupted her. 

“ And that is not the worst. The fact is, Dolly, I don’t 
know what to make of her. If it was any one but Mol- 
lie, or if Mollie was a bit less innocent and impetuous, I 
should not be so much afraid; but sometimes she is angry 
with herself, and sometimes she is angry with him, and 
sometimes she is both, and then I should not be sur- 
prised at her doing anything innocent and frantic. Poor 
child ! It is my impression she has about half made up 
her mind to the desperate resolve of making a grand 
marriage. She said as much the other night, and I 
think that is why she encourages Mr. Chandos.” 

“ Oh, dear,” cried Dolly again. “ And does she think 
he wants to marry her ?” 

“ She knows he makes violent love to her, and she is 
not worldly wise enough to know that Lord Burleighs 
are out of date.” 

“ Out of date !” said Dolly ; I doubt if they ever 
were in date. Men like Mr. Gerald Chandos would hes- 
itate at marrying Venus from Bloomsbury Place.” 

“ If it was Ralph Gowan,” suggested Aim^e. 

“ But Ralph Gowan isn’t like Chandos,” Dolly re- 
turned, astutely. “ He is worth ten thousand of him. 
I wish he would fall in love with Mollie and marry her. 
Poor Mollie ! Poor, pretty, headlong, little goose ! What 
are we to do with her ?” 

“ Mr. Gowan is very fond of her, in a way,” said 
Aimde. . “ If he did not care a little for you ” 

“ I wish he did not !” sighed Dolly. But it serves 
me right,” with candor. “ He would never have thought 


A WIND WHICH BLOWS NOBODY GOOD. 191 

of me again if I — well, if I hadn’t found things so dread- 
fully dull at that Bilberry clan gathering.” 

If,’ ” moralized Aimee, significantly. “‘If’ isn’t a 
wise word, and it often gets you into trouble, Dolly. ‘ If’ 
you hadn’t, it would have been better for Grif, as well — 
but what cannot be cured must be endured.” 

Their long talk ended, however, in Dolly’s great en- 
couragement. It was agreed that the family oracle was 
to bring Griffith to his senses by means of some slight 
sisterly reproof, and that she was to take Mollie in hand 
discreetly at once and persuade her to enter the confes- 
sional. 

“ She has altered a great deal and has grown much 
older and more self-willed lately,” said Aim^e, “ but if I 
am very straightforward and take her by surprise, I 
scarcely think she will be able to conceal much from me, 
and, at least, I shall be able to show her that her fancies 
are romantic and* unpractical.” 

She did not waste any tirne before applying herself to 
her work, when she went home. Instead of going to 
Bloomsbury Place at once, she stopped at Griffith’s lodg- 
ings on her way, and rather scandalized his landlady by 
requesting to be shown into his parlor. Only the grave 
simplicity of the small, slight figure in its gray cloak, 
and the steadfast seriousness in the pretty face reconciled 
the worthy matron to the idea of admitting her without 
investigation. But Aimee bore her scrutiny very calmly. 
The whole family of them had taken tea in the little sit- 
ting-room with Griffith, upon one or two occasions, so 
she was not at all at a loss, although she did not find 
herself recognised. 

“I am one of Mr. Crewe’s sisters,” she said; and that, 
of course, was quite enough. Mrs. Cripps knew Mr, 


192 


DOLLY, 


Crewe as well as she knew Grif himself, so she stepped 
back into the narrow passage at once, and even opened 
the parlor-door, and announced the visitor in a way that 
made poor Grif’s heart beat. 

“ One of Mr. Crewe’s sisters,” she said. 

He had been sitting glowering over the fire, with his 
head on his hands and his elbows on his knees, and when 
he started up he looked quite haggard and dishevelled. 
Was it — could it be Dolly ? He knew it could not be, 
but he turned pale at the thought. It would have been 
' such rapture, in his present frame of mind, to have poured 
out his misery and distrust, and then to have clasped her 
to his heart before she had time to explain. He was 
just in that wretched, passionate, relenting, remorseful 
stage. 

But it was only Aimee, in her gray cloak, and as the 
door closed behind her, that small person advanced 
toward him, crumpling her white forehead and looking 
quite disturbed at the mere sight of him. She held up 
a reproachful finger at him warningly. 

” I knew it would be just this way,” she said. “And 
you are paler and more miserable than ever. If you and 
Dolly would just be more practical and reason more for 
each other, instead of falling headlong into quarrels and 
making everything up headlong every ten minutes, how 
much better it would be for you ! If I was not so fond 
of you both, you would be the greatest trials I have.” 

He was so glad to see the thoughtful, womanly little 
creature, that he could have caught her up in his arms, 
gray cloak and all, and have kissed her only a tithe less 
impetuously than he would have kissed Dolly. He was 
one of the most faithful worshippers at her shrine, and, 
in truth, her pretty wisdom and unselfishness had won her 


A WIND WHWE BLOWS NOBODY GOOD. 193 


many. He drew the easiest chair up to the fire for her, 
and made her sit down and warm her feet on the fender, 
while she talked to him, and he listened to her every 
word, as he always did. 

“ I have been to see Dolly,” she said, ‘'and I found her 
crying — all by herself and crying.” And she paused to 
note the effect of her words. 

His heart gave a great thump. It always did give a 
hard thump when he thought of Dolly as she. looked 
when she cried — a soft, limp, little bundle of pathetic 
prettiness, covering her dear little face in her hands, 
shedding such piteous, impassioned tears, and refusing 
to be kissed or comforted. Dolly sobbing on his shoul- 
der was so different from the coquettish, shrewd, mock- 
worldly Dolly other people saw. 

Aimde put her hand into her dress-pocket under the 
gray cloak and produced her letter — took it out of its 
envelope, laid it on her knee, smoothed out its creases 
again. 

'‘She was crying over this letter,” she proceeded. 
“Your letter, the one you wrote to her when I think 
you cannot have been quite calm enough to write any- 
thing. I think you cannot have read it over before send- 
ing it away. It is always best to read a letter twice be- 
fore posting it. So I have brought it to you to read 
again, and there it is,” giving it to him. 

He burst forth with the story of his wrongs, of course, 
then. He could not keep it in any longer. Things had 
gone wrong with him in every way before this had hap- 
pened, he said, and he had longed so for just one hour 
in which Dolly could comfort him and try to help him 
to pluck up spirits again, and she had written to him a 
tender little letter, and promised to give him that hour, 
13 


DOLLY. 


1 


194 


and he had been so full of impatience and love, and he 
had gone to the very gates and waited like a beggar 
outside, lest he should miss her by any chance, and the 
end of his waiting had been that he had caught a glimpse 
of the bright, warm room, and the piano, and Dolly with 
Gowan bending over her as if she had no other lover ii> 
the world. He told it all in a burst, clenching his hand 
and scarcely stopping for breath, but when he ended he 
dashed the letter down, pushed his chair round, and 
dropped his head on his folded arms on the table, with 
an actual sob — a wild, tearing sob. 

“It is no fault of hers,” he cried, “and it was only the 
first sting that made me reproach her. I shall never do 
it again. She is only in the right, and that fellow is in 
the right when he tells himself that he can take better 
care of her and make her happier than I can. I will be 
a coward no longer — not an hour longer. I will give 
her up to-night. She will learn to love him — he is a 
gentleman at least — if I were in his place I should never 
fear that she would not learn in time, and forget — and 
forget the poor, selfish beggar who would have died for * 
her, and yet was not man enough to control the jealous j 
rage that tortured her. I’ll give her up. I’ll give it all I 
up — but, oh ! my God ! Dolly, the — the little house, and ! 
— and the dreams I have had about it !” t 

Aimde was almost in despair. This was not one of I 
his ordinary moods ; this was the culminating point — i 
the culrnination of all his old sufferings and pangs. He r 
had been working slowly toward this through all the old | 
unhappiness and self-reproach. The constant droppings 
of the by-gone years had worn away the stone at last, 
and he could not bear much more. Aimde was frightened 
now. Her habit of forethought showed her all this in 


A WIND WHICH BLOWS NOBODY GOOD. 195 


a very few seconds. His nervous, highly-strung, impas- 
sioned temperament had broken down at last. Another 
blow would be too much for him. If she could not man- 
age to set him right now and calm him, and if things 
went wrong again, she was secretly conscious of feeling 
that the consequences could not be foreseen. There was 
nothing wild and rash and wretched he might not do. 

She got up and went to him, and leaned upon the 
table, clasping her cool, firm little hand upon his hot, 
desperate one. A woman of fifty could not have had 
the power over him that this slight, inexperienced little 
creature had. Her almost childish face caught color and 
life and strength in her determination to do her best for 
these two whom she loved so well. Her small -boned, 
fragile figure deceived people into undervaluing her 
reserve forces ; but, in fact, there was mature feeling and 
purpose enough in her to have put many a woman three 
times her age to shame. The light, cool touch of her 
hand soothed and controlled Griffith from the fitst, and 
when she put forth all her powers of reasoning, and set 
his trouble before him in a more practical and less head- 
long way, not a word was lost upon him. She pictured 
Dolly to him just as she had found her holding his letter 
in her hand, and she pictured her too as she had really 
been the night he watched her through the window — not 
staying because she cared for Gowan, but because cir- 
cumstances had forced her to remain when she was long- 
ing in her own impetuous pretty way to fly to him, and 
give him the comfort he needed. And she gave Dolly’s 
story in Dolly’s own words, with the little sobs between, 
and the usual plentiful sprinkling of sweet, foolish, loving 
epithets, and — (with innocent artfulness) — made her seem 
so charming and affectionate, a little centre-figure in the 


196 


DOLLY. 


picture she drew, that no man with a heart in his breast 
could have resisted her, and by the time Aimde had fin- 
ished, Grif was so far moved that it seemed a sheer 
impossibility to speak again of relinquishing his claims. 

But he could not regain his spirits sufficiently to feel 
able to say very much. He quieted down, but he was 
still down at heart and crushed in feeling, and could do 
little else but listen in a hopeless sort of way. 

“ I will tell you what you shall do,” Aimee said at 
last. “You shall see Dolly yourself — not on the street, 
but just as you used to see her when she was at home. 
She shall come home some afternoon. I know Miss 
MacDowlas will let her — and you shall sit in the parlor 
together, Grif, and make everything straight, and begin 
afresh.” 

He could not help being roused somewhat by such a 
prospect. The cloud was lifted for one instant, even if 
it fell upon him again the next. 

“ I shall have to wait a week,” he said. “ Old Flynn 
has asked me to go to Dartmouth, to attend to some 
business for him, and I leave here to-morrow morning.” 

“Very well !” she answered. “ If we must wait a Aveek, 
we must ; but you can write to Dolly in the interval, and 
settle upon the day, and then she can speak to Miss 
MacDowlas.” 

He agreed to the plan at once, and promised to write 
to Dolly that very night. So the young peacemaker’s 
mind was set at rest upon this subject, at least, and after 
giving him a trifle more advice, and favoring him with a 
few more sage axioms, she prepared to take her departure. 

“You 'may put on your hat and take me to the door; 
but you had better not come in if you are going to finish 
your letter before the post closes,” she said ; “ but the 


A WIND WHICH BLOWS NOBODY GOOD. 197 

short walk will do you good, and the night-air will cool 
you.” 

She bade him good-night at the gate when they reached 
Bloomsbury Place, and she entered the house with her 
thoughts turning to Mollie. Mollie had been out, too, 
it seemed. When she went up-stairs to their bed-room 
she found her there, standing before the dressing-table, 
still with her hat on, and looking in evident pre-occupa- 
tion at something she held in her hand. Hearing Aimde, 
she started and turned round, dropping her hand at her 
side, but not in time to hide a suspicious glitter which 
caught her sister’s eye. Here was a worse state of 
affairs than ever. She had something to hide, and she 
had made up her mind to hide it. She stood up as 
Aim^e approached, looking excited and guilty, but still 
half-defiant, her lovely head tossed back a little and an 
obstinate curve on her red lips. But the oracle was not 
to be daunted. She confronted her with quite a stern 
little air. 

“Mollie,” she began at once, without the least hesita- 
tion; “Mollie, you have just this minute hidden some- 
thing from me, and I shouldn’t have thought you could 
do it.” 

Mollie put her closed hand behind her. 

I am hiding something,” she answered, “I am not 
hiding it without reason.” 

“No,” returned Dame Prudence, severely, “you are 
not. You have a very good reason, I am afraid. You 
are ashamed of yourself, and you know you are doing 
wrong. You have got a secret, which you are keeping 
from me, Mollie,” bridling a little in the prettiest way. 
“ I didn’t think you would keep a secret from me.'* 

Mollie, very naturally, was overpowered. She looked 


198 


DOLLY. 


a trifle ashamed of herself, and the tears came into her 
eyes. She drew her hand from behind her back, and 
held it out with a half-pettish, half-timid gesture. 

“ There !” she said ; “ if you must see it.” 

And there, on her pink palm, lay a shining opal ring. 

“And,” said Aim^e, looking at it without offering to 
touch it, and then looking at her; “and Mr. Gerald 
Chandos gave it to you ?” 

“Yes, Mr. Gerald Chandos did,” trying to brave it out, 
but still appearing the »reverse of comfortable. 

“And you think it proper,” proceeded her inquisitor, 
“to accept such presents from gentlemen who care 
nothing for you?” 

Care nothing for her. Mollie drew herself upright, 
with the air of a Zenobia. She had had too few real 
love affairs not to take arms at once at such an imputa- 
tion cast upon her prowess. 

“ He cares enough for me to want me to marry him,” 
she said, and then stopped and looked as if she could 
have bitten her tongue off for betraying her. 

Aim^e sat down in the nearest chair and stared at her, 
as if she doubted the evidence of her senses. 

“To do what?” she demanded. 

There was.no use in trying to coneeal the truth any 
longer. Mollie saw that much ; and besides this, her 
feelings were becoming too strong for her from various 
causes. The afternoon had been an exciting one to her, 
too. So, all at once, so suddenly that Aimee was alto- 
gether unprepared for the outbreak, she gave way. The 
ring fell unheeded on to the carpet — slipped from her 
hand and rolled away, and the next instant she went 
down upon her knees, hiding her face on her arms on 
Aimee’s lap, and beginning to cry hysterically. 


A WIND WHICH BLOWS NOBODY GOOD. 199 

“ It — it is to be quite a secret,” she sobbed. I would 
not tell anybody but you, and I dare not tell you quite 
all, but he has asked me to marry him, Aim^e, and I 
have— I have said yes.” And then she cried more than 
ever, and caught Aimee’s hand, and clung- to it with a 
desperate, childish grasp, as if she was frightened. 

It was very evident that she was frightened, too. All 
the newly-assumed womanliness was gone. It was the 
handsome, inexperienced, ignorant child Mollie she had 
known all her life who was clinging to her, Aimee felt — 
the pretty, simple, thoughtless Mollie they had all ad- 
mired and laughed at, and teazed and been fond of She 
seemed to have become a child again all &t once, and she 
was in trouble and desperate, it was plain. 

“But the very idea!” exclaimed Aimee, inwardly; 
“ the bare idea of her having the courage to engage her- 
self to him 1” 

“ I never heard such a thing in my life,” she said 
aloud. “ Oh, Mollie ! Mollie ! what induced you to give 
him such a mad answer? You don’t care for him.” 

“ He — he would not take any other answer, and he is 
as nice as any one else,” shamefacedly.' “ He is nicer 
than Brown and the others, and — I do like him — a lit- 
tle,” but a tiny shudder crept over her, and she held her 
listener’s hand more tightly. 

“ As nice as any one else !” echoed Aimee, indignantly. 
“Nicer than Brown I You ought to be in leading- 
strings I” with pathetic hopelessness. “That wasn’t your 
only reason, Mollie.” 

The hat with the short crimson feather had been un- 
ceremoniously pushed off, and hung by its elastic upon 
Mollie’s neck ; the pretty curly hair was all crushed into 
a heap, and the flushed, tear-wet face was hidden in the 


200 


DOLLY. 


folds of Aim^e’s dress. There was a charming, foolish, 
fanciful side to Mollie’s desperation, as there was to all 
her moods. 

“That was not your only reason,” repeated Aim^e. 

One forlorn, impetuous, unhappy little sob, and the 
poor simple child confessed against her will. 

“Nobody — nobody else cared for me !” she cried. 

“Nobody?” said Aim^e; and then, making up her 
mind to go to the point at once, she said : “ Does ‘nobody’ 
mean that Ralph Gowan did not, Mollie?” 

The clinging hand was snatched away, and the child 
quite writhed. 

“I hate Ralph Gowan!” she cried. “I detest him I I 
wish — I wish — I wish I had never seen him! Why 
couldn’t he stay away among his own people? Nobody 
wanted him. Dolly doesn’t care for him, and Grif hates 
him. Why couldn’t he stay where he was?” 

There was no need to doubt after this, of course. Her 
love for Ralph Gowan had rendered her restless and des- 
pairing, and so she had worked out this innocent romance, 
intending to defend herself against him. The heroines 
of her favorite novels married for money when they could 
not marry for love, and why should not she ? Remember, 
she was only seventeen, and had been brought up in 
Vagabondia among people who did not often regard con- 
sequences. Mr. Gerald Chandos was rich, made violent 
love to her, and was ready to promise anything, it 
appeared — not that she demanded much ; the Lord 
Burleighs of her experience invariably showered jewels 
and equipages and fine raiment upon their brides without 
being asked. She would have thought it positive bliss 
to be tied to Ralph Gowan for six or seven years without 
any earthly prospect of ever being married; to have 


A WIND WHICH BLOWS NOBODY GOOD. 201 


belonged to him as Dolly belonged to Grif, to sit in the 
parlor and listen to him while he made love to her as 
Grif made love to Dolly, would have been quite enough 
steady-going rapture for her ; but since that w'as out of 
the question, Mr. Gerald Chandos and diamonds and a 
carriage would have to fill up the blank. 

But, of course, she did not say this to Aimde. In fact, 
after her first burst of excitement subsided, Aimde could 
not gain much from her. She cried a little more, and 
then seemed vexed with herself, and tried to cool down, 
and, at last, so far succeeded that she sat up and pushed 
her tangled hair from her wet, hot face, and began to 
search for the ring. 

“ It has got a diamond in the centre,” she said, trying 
to speak indifferently. “ I don’t believe you looked at 
it. The opals are splendid, too.” 

“Are you going to wear it?” asked Aimee. 

She colored up to her forehead. 

“ No, I am not,” she answered. “ I should have worn 
it before if I had intended to let people see it. I told 
you it was a secret. I have had this ring three or four 
days.” 

“Why is it a secret?” demanded Dame Prudence. “I 
don’t believe in secrets— particularly in secret engage- 
ments. Isn’t Phil to know.?” 

She turned away to put the ring into its case. 

“Not yet,” she replied, pettishly. “Time enough 
when it can’t be helped. It is a secret, I tell you, and I 
don’t care about everybody’s talking it over ” 

And she would say no more. 


202 


dolly: 


CHAPTER XIL 

IN WHICH THERE IS AN EXPLOSION. 

I T is my impression,” said Dolly, “ that something is 
going to happen.” And she ended with a sigh. 
Truth to tell, she was not in the best of spirits. She 
would not have explained why. Griffith was safe at 
least, though he had been detained a week longer than 
he had anticipated, and consequently their meeting would 
have to be deferred ; but though this had been a disap- 
pointment, Dolly was used to such disappointments, and 
besides the most formidable part of the waiting was over, 
for it was settled now that he would be home in two 
days. It was Tuesday now, and on Thursday he was to 
return, and she was going to Bloomsbury Place in the 
afternoon, and he was to join the family tea as he had 
used to do in the old times. But still she did not feel 
quite easy. She was restless and uncomfortable in spite 
of herself, and was conscious of being troubled by a 
vague presentiment of evil. * ^ 

“ It is not like me to be blue,” she said to herself ; “ but 
I am blue to-day. I wonder what is going on at home.” 

Then, as was quite natural, her thoughts wandered to 
Mollie, and she began to ponder upon what Aim^e had 
told her. How were matters progressing, and what was 
going to be the end of it all ? The child’s danger was 
even plainer to her than it was to Aimee, and fond as she 


m WHICH THERE IS AN EXPLOSION 


203 


was of Mollie she had determined to improve the occa- 
sion of her visit home, by taking the fair delinquent aside 
and administering a sound lecture to her. She' would 
tell her the truth at least, and try to open her innocent 
eyes to the fact that Mr. Gerald Chandos was not a man 
of the King Cophetua stamp, and that there was neither 
romance nor poetry in allowing such a man to amuse 
himself at her expense. 

Poor Mollie ! It would be a rather humiliating view 
to take of a first conquest, but it would be the best thing 
for her in the end. Dolly quite sighed over the mere 
prospect of the task before her. She remembered what 
her first conquest had been, and how implicitly she had 
believed in her new power, and how trustingly she had 
swallowed every sugared nothing, and how she had re- 
velled in the field of possible romance which had seemed 
spread before her — until she had awakened one fine day 
to find the first flush of her triumph fading, and her 
adorer losing his attractions and becoming rather tame. 
That had been long ago, even before Griffith’s time, but 
she had not forgotten the experience, though it had been 
by no means a sentimental one, and she knew it would 
have been a severe shock to her innocent self-love and 
self-gratulation, if any one had hinted to her that there 
was a doubt of her captive’s honesty. She was think- 
ing of all this and arranging the heads of her address, 
when she was roused from her reverie by a message from 
Miss MacDowlas. It was only a commonplace sort of 
message. The were some orders to be left at the poul- 
terer’s and fruiterer’s, and some bills to be paid in town, 
and these affairs being her business. Miss MacDowlas 
had good-naturedly ordered the carriage for her as she 
had a long round to make. 


204 


DOLLY. 


Dolly got up and laid her work aside. She was not 
sorry for the opportunity of going out, so she ran up- 
stairs with some alacrity to put on her hat, and having 
dressed, went to Miss Mac.Dowlas for more particular 
instructions. 

“You are looking rather pale and the drive will do 
you good,” said that lady. “ Call at Pullet’s and pay his 
bill, and order the things on his list first. By the way, 
it was when I drove round to give orders to Pullet the 
other day, that I saw your pretty sister with Gerald 
Chandos. She is too pretty — far too pretty and far too 
young and inexperienced, to be giving private interviews 
to such people as Gerald Chandos,” sharply. 

“ Private !” repeated Dolly, with some indignation. “I 
think that is a mistake. Mr. Gerald Chandos has no 
need to make his interview private. The doors are open 
to him at Bloomsbury Place so long as he behaves him- 
self” 

“The more is the pity,” answered Miss MacDowlas, 
“but that this was a private interview I am certain 
enough. My pretty Miss Innocence came up the street 
slowly with her handsome baby-face on fire, and two 
minutes later Gerald Chandos followed her in a won- 
drous hurry, and joined her and carried her off, looking 
very guilty and charming, and a trifle reluctant I must 
admit.” 

Dolly’s cheeks flushed, and her heart began to beat 
hotly. If this was the case it was simply disgraceful, 
and Miss Mollie was allowing herself to be led too far. 

“I am sorry to hear this,” she said to Miss Mac- 
Dowlas, “ but I am indebted to you for telling me. I 
will attend to it when I go home on Thursday, and,” 


IN WHICH THEBE IS AN EXPLOSION 


205 


with a flash of fire, “if it is needful I will attend to 
Mr. Gerald Chandos himself.” 

She entered the carriage, feeling hot and angry and 
distressed. She had not expected such a blow, even 
though she had told herself that she was prepared to 
hear of any romantic imprudence. And then in the 
.midst of her anger she began to pity Mollie, as it seemed 
natural to pity her always when she was indiscreet. 
Who had ever taught her to be discreet, poor child? 
Had she herself? No, she had not. She had been fond 
of her and proud of her beauty, but she had laughed at 
her unsophisticated, thoughtless way with the rest, and 
somehow they had all looked upon her as they looked 
upon Tod — as rather a good joke. Dolly quite hated 
herself as she remembered how she had related her own 
little escapades for the edification of the family circle, 
and how Mollie had enjoyed them more than any one 
else did. She had never overstepped the actual bounds 
of propriety herself, but she had been coquettish and fond 
of admiration, and had delighted to hold her own against 
the world. 

“I wasn’t a good example to her!” she cried remorse- 
fully. “She ought to have had a good, wise mother. I 
wish she had. I wish I had one myself” 

And she burst into tears, and leaned her head against 
the cushioned carriage, feeling quite overcome by her 
self-reproach and consciousness. Their mother had died 
when Mollie was born, and they had been left to fight 
their own battles ever since. 

She was obliged to control herself, however. It would 
never do to present herself to Pullet in tears. So she 
sat up and dried her eyes with her handkerchief, and 
turned to the carriage window to let the fresh air blow 


206 


DOLLY. 


upon her face. But she had not been looking out two 
minutes before her attention was attracted by something 
down the street — a bit of color — a bit of scarlet, in fact 
a little tuft of scarlet feathers in a hat, and then her eyes 
wandering lower, recognised a well-remembered jacket 
and a well-remembered dress, and then the next instant 
she uttered an exclamation in spite of herself 

“ It is Mollie !” she cried. “ It is Mollie, and here is 
Gerald Chandos !” 

For at the door of a bookseller’s she was just near- 
ing stood the gentleman in question, holding a periodi- 
cal in his hand, and evidently awaiting an arrival. 

He caught sight of Mollie almost as soon as she did 
herself, and the instant he saw her he hurried toward 
her, and by the time Miss MacDowlas’s carriage rolled 
slowly up to them, in its usual stately fashion, he was 
holding^ the small disreputable glove Mollie had just 
taken out of the convenient jacket pocket, and the fair 
culprit herself was listening to his eager greeting with 
the old, bright, uncontrollable blushes, and the old dan- 
gerous trick of drooping, brown-fringed eyelids, and 
half-shy, half-wilful air. Dolly instinctively called to her 
almost aloud. She could not resist the impulse. 

“ Mollie !” she said. Mollie !” 

But, of course, Mollie did not hear her, and the car- 
riage passed her, and Dolly sank back into her corner 
catching her breath. 

“ It was not a mistake,” she said,' “ it was true. It 
was worse than I thought it was. Miss MacDowlas was 
right. It was no accident which brought them both 
here. He is a cowardly scoundrel and is playing upon 
her ignorance. If I had believed in him before, I should 
know that he was not to be trusted now. She is walk- 


m WHICH THERE IS AH EXPLOSION. 


207 


ing on the edge of a precipice, and she thinks she is 
safe and never dreams of its existence. Oh, Mollie ! 
Mollie ! the world means nothing to you yet, and it is 
we who have to show you all the thorns !” 

She finished her errands and drove homeward as 
quickly as possible. She could think of nothing but 
Mollie, and by the time she reached Brabazon Lodge 
her head ached with the unpleasant excitement. The 
servant who opened the door met her with a piece of 
information. Mr. Gowan had called to see her on some 
special business, and was awaiting her arrival in the 
drawing-room. He had been there almost an hour. 

She did not go to her room at all, but ran up-stairs to 
the drawdng-room quickly, feeling still more anxious. 
It was just possible that somebody was ill, and Ralph 
Gowan had come to break the news to her because no 
one else had been at liberty. With this idea uppermost, 
she opened the door and advanced toward him, looking 
pale and troubled. 

He met her half-w'ay, and took her outstretched hand, 
looking troubled himself. 

“You are not very well,” he said at once. “I am 
sorry to see that and his voice told her immediately 
that he had not come with good news. 

She smiled faintly, but w'hen she sat down she put 
her hand to her forehead. 

“Am I pale, then?” she answered. “I suppose I 
must be. It is nothing but a. trifle of headache, and,” 
with a hesitant laugh, “that I half-fancied you had come 
to tell me something unpleasant.” 

He was silent for a moment — so silent that she looked 
up at him with a startled face. 


208 


DOLLY. 


“ It is something unpleasant !” she exclairned. “ You 
have come with ill news, and you are afraid to begin.” 

“ Not so bad as that — not afraid, but rather reluctant,” 
he answered. “ It is 7zot pleasant news ; and but that I 
felt it would be wisest to warn you at once, I would 
rather any one else had brought it. I have stumbled 
upon a disagreeable report.” 

“ Report !” Dolly echoed, and her thoughts flew to 
Mollie again. 

“ Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “ It is only a disagree- 
able one because the subject of it has managed to con- 
nect himself with some one whose happiness we value.” 

Dolly rose from her chair and stood up, turning even 
paler than before, 

“ This some one whose happiness we value is Mollie,” 
she said. “And the report you have heard is about Mr. 
Gerald Chandos. Am I not right ?” 

“Yes,” he returned, “you are right. The hero of the 
report is Gerald Chandos.” 

“ What has he been doing ?” she asked, sharply. 
“ Don’t hesitate, please. I want to know.” 

He was evidently both distressed and perplexed. It 
seemed as if he felt his. errand to be a delicate one. He 
took two or three hurried steps across the room, as if to 
give himself a little extra time to settle his words into 
the best form. But Dolly could not wait. 

“Mr. Gowan,” she said, “what has that man been 
doing ?” 

He turned round and answered her. 

“He has been passing himself off to your brother as 
an unmarried man,” he said. 

She slipped back into her chair again, and wrung her 
hands passionately. 


IN' WHICH THERE IS AN EXPLOSION 


209 


^‘And he. is married?” she demanded. “Oh! how was 
it you did not know this ?” 

“Not one in ten of Mr. Gerald Chandos’ friends know 
it,” he returned. “And I am only a chance acquaintance. 
It is not an agreeable story to tell, if what report says is 
true. Remember, it is only report as yet, and I will not 
vouch for it. It is said that the marriage was the end of 
a boyish folly, and that the happy couple separated by 
mutual consent six months after its consummation. The 
woman went to California, and Chandos has not seen her 
since, though he hears of her whereabouts occasionally.” 

“And you are not quite sure yet that the report is 
true ?” said Dolly. 

“Not quite sure,” he replied ; “but I wish I had greater 
reason to doubt it.” 

Recurring mentally to the little scene she had wit- 
nessed on the street only an hour or so previously, and 
remembering Mollie’s blushes and drooping eyes, and 
the look they had won from Mr. Gerald Chandos as he 
took her half-reluctant hand in his, Dolly bit her lips 
hard, feeling her blood grow hot within her. She waited 
just a minute to cool herself, and then spoke. 

“Mr. Go wan,” she said, “in the first place I ought to 
thank you.” 

“Nay,” he said, “I promised to help you to care for 
Mollie.” 

“I ought to thank you,” she repeated. “And I do. 
But in the second place I am going to ask you to do 
something for me which may be disagreeable.” 

“You may be sure,” he replied, “that I shall not hesi- 
tate.” 

“Yes,” she said, “I think I am sure of that, or I 
should not ask you. I am so eager about the matter, 
14 


210 


DOLLY. 


that I could not bear to waste* the time. I want you to 
help me. On Thursday afternoon I am going home. 
Can you trace this report to its source before then, and 
let me know whet;her it is a true or a false one ?” 

“ I can try.” 

She clasped both her gloved hands together on the 
small table before her, and lifted to his such a determined 
young face and such steadfast eyes, that he was quite 
impressed. She would rise in arms against the world 
for poor, unwise Mollie, it was plain. It was not so safe 
a matter to trifle in Vagabondia, it would seem — that 
Gerald Chandos would find to his cost. 

“ If you bring word to me that what you have heard is 
a truth,” she said, “ I can go to Mollie with my weapon 
in my hand, and I can end all at one blow. However 
wilful and incrddulous she may have been heretofore, 
she will not attempt to resist me when I tell her that. It 
is a humiliating thing to think he has insulted her by 
keeping his secret so far ; but we meet with such covert 
stings now and then in Vagabondia, and perhaps as it is 
it will prove a blessing in disguise. If we had used our 
authority to make her dismiss him without having a 
decided reason to give her, she might only have resented 
our intervention as being nothing but prejudice. As it 
is, she will be frightened and angry.” 

So it was agreed upon that he should take in hand the 
task of sifting the affair to the bottom. His time was 
his own, and chance had thrown him among men who 
would be likely to know the truth. As soon as he had 
gained the necessary information, Dolly would hear from 
him, or he would call upon her and give her all particu- 
lars. 

“You have a whole day before you — nearly two whole 


m WHICH THERE IS AN EXPLOSION. 211 ' 

days, I may say, for I shall not be likely to leave here un- 
til five or six o’clock on Thursday,” Dolly said before he 
feft, when their rather lengthened interview terminated. 

I will make the most of my time,” he replied. 

Dolly stood at the window and watched him go down 
th'e walk to the gates. • 

‘'This is the something which was going to happen,” 
she commented. “ Having set matters straight with 
Grif, I suppose it is necessary for the maintenance of my 
. self-control that I should have a difficulty about Mollie ; 
but I think I could have retained my equilibrium with- 
out it.” 

The two days passed quietly enough up to Thursday 
afternoon. Whatever Ralph Gowan had discovered, he 
was keeping to himself for the present. He had not 
written, and he had not called. Naturally, Dolly was 
impatient. She began to be very impatient, indeed, as 
the afternoon waned,, and it became dusk. Worse still, 
her old restlessness came upon her. She could not make 
up her mind to leave Brabazon Lodge until she had either 
seen or heard from Gowan, and she was afraid that if she 
lingered late Griffith would arrive before her, and would 
be troubled by her non-appearance. Since the night 
they had met in the street she had not seen him, and she 
had much to say to him. She had looked forward anx- 
iously to this evening, and the few quiet hours they were 
to spend together in the dear, old, disreputable parlor at 
Bloomsbury Place. They had spent so many blissful 
evenings in that parlor, that the very thought of it made 
her heart beat happily. Nobody would be there to inter- 
fere with them. The rest of the family would, good- 
naturedly, vacate and leave them alone, and she would 
take her old chair by the fire, and Grif would sit near 


212 


DOLLY, 


her, and, in ten minutes after they had sat so together, 
they would have left all their troubles behind them, and 
wandered off into a realm of tender dreams and sweet 
unrealities. But, impatient as she was to be gone, Dolly 
could not forget Mollie’s interest. It was too near her 
heart to be forgotten. She must' attend to Mollie’s little 
affairs first, and then she could fly to Grif and the parlor 
with an easy conscience. So she waited until five o’clock 
before dressing to go out, and then after watching at the 
window for awhile, she decided to go to her room and 
put on her hat and make all her small preparations, so 
that when her visitor arrived she might be ready to leave 
the house as soon as he did. 

“ It won’t do to keep Grif waiting too long, even for 
Mollie’s sake,” she said. “I must consider him, too. If * 
Mr. Gowan does not come by six or half past, I shall be 
obliged to go.” 

She purposely prolonged her toilet, even though it 
had occupied a greater length of time than usual in the 
first instance. There had been a new acquisition in the 
shape of a dress to don, and one or two coquettish aids 
to appearance, which were also novelties. But, before 
six o’clock she was quite ready, and having nothing else 
to do, was reduced to the necessity of standing before 
the glass and taking stock of herself and her attire. 

“ It fits,” she soliloquized, curving her neck in her 
anxiety to obtain a back view of herself. “ It fits like a 
glove, and so Grif will be sure to like it. His admira- 
tion for clothes that fit amounts to a wild monomania. 
He will make his usual ecstatic remarks on the subject 
of figure, too. And I must confess,” with modest self- 
satisfaction, must confess that those frills are not 
unbecoming. If we were only rich — and married — how 


m WHICH THERE IS AN EXPLOSION. 


213 


I would dress, to please him. Being possessed of a figure, 
one’s results are never uncertain. Figure is a weakness 
of mine also. With the avoirdupois of Miss Jolliboy, 
life would appear a desert. Ten thousand per annum 
would not console me. And yet she wears sables and 
seal-skin, and is happy. It is a singular fact, worthy of 
the notice of the philosopher, that it is such women who 
invariably possess the sable and seal-skin. Ah, well !” 
charitably, “ I suppose it is a dispensation of Providence. 
When they attain that size they need some compensation.” 

Often in aftertime she remembered the complacent 
little touch of vanity, and wondered how it had been 
possible that she could stand' there, making so thought- 
less and foolish a speech when danger was so near, and 
so much of sharp, passionate suffering was approaching 
her. 

She hacT waited until the last minute, and finding, on 
consulting her watch, that it was past six, she decided 
to wait no longer. She took up her gloves from the 
dressing-table and drew them on ; she settled the little 
drooping plume in her hat and picked up her muff, and 
then giving a last glance and a saucy nod to the piquant 
reflection in the glass, she opened her bed-room door to 
go out. 

And then it was, just at this last moment, that there 
came a ring at the hall-door bell — rather a loud ring, 
evidently a hurried ring, and withal a ring which made, 
her heart beat, she knew not why. 

She stood at the head of the staircase and listened. A 
moment later, and the visitor was speaking to the ser- 
vant who had admitted him. 

“ Mr. Gowan,” she heard. Miss Crewe — wish to see 
her at once — at once.” 


214 


DOLLY. 


She knew by his voice that something was wrong, and 
she did not wait for the up-coming of the servant. She 
almost flew down the staircase, and entered the parlor an 
instant after him, and when he saw her he met her with 
an exclamation of thankfulness. 

“ Thank God !” he said, “ that you are ready !” He 
was pale with excitement, and fairly out of breath. He 
did not give her time to answer him. “ You must come 
with me,” he said. “ There is not a moment to lose. I 
have a cab at the door. I have driven here at full speed. 
The report is true, and I have found out that to-night 
Chandos leaves London. But that is not the worst — for 
God’s sake, be calm, and remember how much depends 
upon your courage — he intends taking your sister with 
him.” 

Terrible as the shock was to her, she was calm, and 
did remember how much might depend upoi> her. She 
forgot Grif and the happy evening she had promised her- 
self ; she forgot all the world but Mollie — handsome, 
lovable, innocent Mollie, who was rushing headlong and 
unconsciously to misery and ruin. A great,’sharp change 
seemed to come upon her as she turned to Ralph Gowan. 
She was not the same girl who, a minute or so before, 
had nodded at her pretty self in the glass ; the excited 
blood tingled in her veins ; she was full of desperate, 
eager bravery — she could not wait a breath’s space. 

“Come!” she exclaimed, “ I am ready. You can tell 
me the rest when we are in the cab.” 

She did not even know where they were going until 
she heard Gowan give the driver the directions. But, 
as they drove through the streets she learned all. 

In spite of his eflbrts, it was not until the eleventh 
hour that he had succeeded in obtaining positive proof 


IN WHICH THERE IS AN EXPLOSION. 


215 


of the truth of the report, though he had found less 
cause to doubt it each time he made fresh inquiries. In 
the end he had been driven to the necessity of appealing 
to a man who had been Chandos’s confidential valet, and 
who, rascal though he was, still was able to produce 
proofs to be relied on. Then he had been roused to 
such indignation that he had driven to the fellow’s lodg- 
ings with the intention of confronting him with his im- 
pudent guilt, and there he had made the fearful disco- 
very that he had just left the place with “a pretty, child- 
ish-looking girl — tall, and with a lovely color,” as the 
landlady described her ; and he had known it was Mollie 
at once. 

The good woman had given him all particulars. They 
had come to the house together in a cab, and the young 
lady had not got out, but had remained seated in it 
while her companion had given his orders to his servant 
indoors. She — his housekeeper — had heard him say 
something about Brussels, and having caught a glimpse 
of the charming face in the vehicle outside, she had 
watched it from behind the blinds, suspecting something 
out of the common order of things. 

“ Not that he did not treat her polite and respectful 
enough,” she added; “for he did, and she — pretty, young 
thing — seemed quite to expect it, and not to be at all 
ashamed of herself, though she were a trifle shy and timid. 
I even heard him ask her if she would rather he rode out- 
side, and she said she ‘ thought so, if he pleased.’ And 
he bowed to her and went, quite obedient. That was 
what puzzled me so ; if he’d ha’ been freer, I could have 
understood it.” 

“ It does not puzzle me !” cried Dolly, clenching her 
hands and fairly panting for breath when she heard it. 


216 


DOLLY. 


He knows how innocent she is, and he is too crafty to 
alarm her by his manner. Oh, cannot we make this man 
drive faster? — cannot we make him drive faster?” 

Gowan drew out his watch and referred to it 

“ There is no danger of our losing their train,” he said. 

It does not leave the station until nearly seven, and it 
is not yet half past six. If they leave London to-night, 
we shall meet them ; if they do not, I think I can guess 
where we shall find them. Remember, you must not 
allow yourself to become excited. We have only our 
coolness and readiness of action to rely upon. If we 
lose our presence of mind we lose all.” 

He did not lose his presence of mind at least. 

Even in the midst of her distress, Dolly found time to 
feel grateful to him beyond measure, and to admire his 
forethought. He never seemed to hesitate for a moment. 
He had evidently decided upon his course beforehand, 
and there was no delay. Reaching the station, he as- 
sisted Dolly to descend from the cab, and led her at once 
to a seat where she could command a view of all who 
made their appearance upon the platform. Then he left 
her and went to make inquiries from the officials. He 
was not absent long. In a few minutes he returned with 
the necessary information. The train was not due 
for twenty minutes, and as yet no lady and gentleman 
answeVing to his description had been seen by any one 
in the place. 

He came to Dolly and took a seat by her, looking 
down at her upturned, appealing face pityingly, but re- 
assuringly. 

“We are safe yet,” he said. “They have not arrived, 
and they can have taken passage in no other train. We 
will watch this train leave the station, and then we will 


IJSr WHICH THERE IS AN EXPLOSION 


217 


drive at full speed to the hotel Chandos is in the habit of 
visiting when he makes a flying journey. I know the 
place well enough.” 

The next half hour was an anxious one to both. The 
train was behind time, and consequently they were com- 
pelled to wait longer than they had expected. A great 
many people crowded into the station and took tickets 
for various points — workingmen and their wives, old 
women with bundles, and young ones without, comfort- 
able people who travelled j[irst-class and seemed satisfied 
with themselves, shabbily-attired little dressmakers and 
milliners with bandboxes, a party of tourists and a few 
nice girls ; in fact, the usual samples of the usual people 
hurrying or taking it easy, losing their temper or pre- 
serving it; but there was no Mollie. The last moment 
arrived, the guards closed the carriage doors with the 
customary bang, and the customary cry of “All right;” 
there were a few puffs and a whistle, and then the train 
moved slowly out of the station. Mollie was not on her 
way to Brussels yet, that was a fact to be depended upon. 

Dolly rose from her seat with a sigh which was half 
relief 

“ Now for trying the hotel,” said Gow'an. “ Take my 
arm and summon up your spirits. In less than quarter 
of an hour, I think I may say, we shall have found our 
runaway, and we shall have to do our best to reduce het 
romantic escapade to a commonplace level. We may 
even carry her back to Bloomsbury Place before they 
have had time to become anxious about her. Thank 
Heaven, we were so fortunate as to discover all bef6re it 
was too late !” 

Bloomsbury Place! A sudden pang shot through 
Dolly’s heart. She recollected then for the first time 


218 


DOLLY. 


that at Bloomsbury Place Griffith was waiting for her, 
and that it might be a couple of hours before she could 
see him and explain. She got into the cab and leaned 
back in one corner, with the anxious tears forcing them- 
selves into her eyes. It seemed as if fate itself was 
against her. 

“ What will he think ?” she exclaimed, unconsciously. 
“ Oh, what will he think !” 

Then, seeing that Gowan had heard her, she looked at 
him piteously. 

“ I did not mean to speak aloud,” she said. “ I had 
forgotten in my trouble that Grif will be waiting for me 
all this time. He has gone to the house to meet me, 
and — I am not there.” 

Perhaps he felt a slight pang, too. For some time he 
had been slowly awakening to the fact that this other- 
wise unfortunate Grif was all in all to her, and shut out 
the rest of the world completely. He had no chance 
against him, and no other man would have any. Still, 
even in the face of this knowledge, the evident keenness 
of her disappointment cut him a little. 

“You must not let that trouble you,” he said, gener- 
ously. “ Donne will easily understand your absence 
when you tell him where you have been. In the mean- 
time, I have a few suggestions to make before we reach 
the hotel!” 

It was Mollie he was thinking of He was won- 
drously tender of her in his man’s pity for her childish 
folly and simplicity. If possible, they must keep her 
secret to themselves. If she had left no explanation 
behind her, she must have given some reason for leaving 
the house, and if they found her at the hotel it would 
not be a difficult matter to carry her back home without 


m WHICH THERE IS AN EXPLOSION 


219 


exciting suspicion, and thus she would be saved the 
embarrassment and comment her position would other- 
wise call down upon .her. Griffith might be told in con- 
fidence, but the rest of them might be left to imagine 
thgt nothing remarkable had occurred. These were his 
suggestions. 

Dolly agreed to adopt them at once, it is hardly neces- 
sary to say. The idea that it would be possible to adopt 
them made the case look less formidable. She had been 
terribly troubled at first by the thought of the excitement 
the explanation of the escapade would cause at Blooms- 
bury Place. Phil would have been simply furious — not 
so much against Mollie as against Chandos. His good- 
natured indifference to circumstances would not have been 
proof against the base betrayal of confidence involved 
in the affair. And then even in the after-time, when the 
worst was over and forgotten, the innumerable jokes and 
thoughtless sarcasms she would have had to encounter 
would have been Mollie’s severest punishment. When 
the remembrance of her past danger had faded out of 
the family mind, and. the whimsical side of the matter 
presented itself, they would have teased her, and Dolly 
felt that such a course would be far from safe. So she 
caught at Ralph Gowan’s plan eagerly. 

Still she felt an excited thrill when the cab drew up 
before the door of the hotel. Suppose they should not 
find her ? Suppose Chandos had taken precautions 
against their being followed ? 

But Gowan did not seem to share her misgivings, 
though the expression upon his face was a decidedly dis- 
turbed one as he descended from the vehicle. 

“You must remain seated until I come back,” he said.^ 
“ I shall not be many minutes, I am sure. I am con- 


220 


DOLLY. 


vinced they are here.” And then he closed the cab door 
and left her. 

She drew out her watch and sat looking at it to steady 
herself. Her mind was not very clear as to how she 
intended to confront Mr. Gerald Chandos and convince 
Mollie. The convincing Mollie would not be difficult, 
she was almost sure, but the confronting of Gerald 
Chandos was not a pleasant thing to think of. 

She was just turning over in her mind a stirring, scath- 
ing speech, when the cab door opened again, and Gowan 
stood before her. He had not been absent five minutes. 

“ It is as I said it would be,” he said. “ They are here 
— at least Mollie is here. Chandos has gone out, and 
she is alone in the private parlor he has engaged for her. 
They have evidently missed their train. They intended 
to leave by the first in the morning. I have managed to 
give the impression that we are expected, and so we shall 
be shown on to the scene at once without any trouble.” 

And so they were. A waiter met them at the entrance 
and led them up-stairs without the slightest hesitation. 

It is not necessary to announce us,” said Gowan. And 
the man threw open the door of No. 2 with a bow. 

They crossed the threshold together without speaking, 
and when the door closed behind them they actually 
turned and looked at each other with a simultaneous but 
half-smothered exclamation. 

It was a pretty room, this hotel parlor. A bright room 
with a delicate gay-hued carpet and thick white rugs, 
numerous mirrors and upholstering of silver-gray and 
blue. There was a clear-burning fire in the highly-pol- 
ished steel-grate, and one of the blue and silver-gray 
sofas had been drawn up to it, and there, upon this sofa. 


m WHICH THERE IS AN EXPLOSION 


221 


lay Mollie with her hand under her cheek, sleeping like 
a baby. 

There is no denying that they were both touched to 
the heart by the mere sight of her. There was some- 
thing in the perfect repose of her posture and expression 
that was oddly childish and restful. It was a difficult 
matter to quite realize that she was sleeping on the brink 
of ruin and desolation. Something bright gathered on 
Dolly’s lashes and slipped down her cheek as she looked 
at her. 

“ Thank God, we have found her !” she said. Just to 
think that she should be sleeping like that — as if she 
was at home. If she was two years old she might wear 
just such a look.” 

Gowan hardly liked to stand by as she went toward 
the sofa. The girl’s face, under the coquettish hat, 
seemed to soften and grow womanly, her whole figure 
seemed to soften as she knelt down upon the carpet by 
• the couch and laid her hand upon Mollie s shoulder, 
speaking to her gently. 

“Mollie,” she said, “dear, waken.” 

Just that, and Mollie started up with a faint cry, daz- 
zled by the light, and rubbing her eyes and her soft, 
flushed cheeks, just as she had done the night Gowan 
surprised her asleep in the parlor. 

“ Dolly,” she cried out, when she saw who was with 
her, “ Dolly,” in a half-frightened voice, “ why did you 
come here ?” 

“I came to take you home,” answered Dolly, tremu- 
lously; but firmly. “ Thank God ! I am not too late ! 
Oh, Mollie, Mollie, how could you?” ' . 

Mollie sat up among her blue and gray cushions and 
stared at her for a moment, as if she was not wide enough 


222 


DOLLY. 


awake to realize what she meant. But the next instant 
she caught sight of Ralph Gowan, and that roused her 
fully, and she flushed scarlet. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “I don’t 
know what you mean by coming here in this way. And 
I don’t know what Mr. Gowan means by bringing you — 
for I feel sure he has brpught you. I am not a baby, to 
be followed as if I could not take care of myself. I am 
going to be married to Mr. Gerald Chandos to-morrow, 
and we are going on the continent for our wedding 
tour.” 

She was in a high state of rebellion. It was Gowan’s 
presence she was resenting, not Dolly’s. To tell the 
truth, she was rather glad to see Dolly. She had begun 
to feel the loneliness of her position, and it had half 
intimidated her. But the sight of Gowan roused her 
spirit. What right had he to come and interfere with 
her, since he did not care for her and thought she was 
nothing but a child? It made her feel like a child. She* 
turned her back to him openly as she spoke to Dolly. 

“ I am going to be married in the morning,” she 
repeated ; “ and we are going to Brussels.” 

Then^ in her indignation against Mr. Gerald Chandos, 
Dolly fired a little herself. 

“And has it never occurred to you,” she said, “that it 
is rather a humiliating thing this running away, as if you 
knew you were doing something disgraceful ? May I 
ask what reason Mr. Gerald Chandos gives for asking 
you to submit to such an insult, for it is an insult ?” 

“ He has very good reasons,” answered Mollie, begin- 
ning to falter all at once, as the matter was presented to 
her in this new and trying light. “ He has very good 
reasons — something about business and — and his family. 


m WHICH THERE IS AN EXPLOSION . 223 


and he does not intend to insult me. He is very fond of 
me and very proud of me, and he is going to try to 
make me very happy. He — he has bought me a beauti- 
ful trousseau ” And then seeing the two exchange 

indignant yet pitying glances, she broke off suddenly 
and burst forth as if she was trying to hide in anger the 
subtle, mysterious fear which was beginning to creep 
upon her. “ How dare you to look at each other so !” 
she cried. ‘‘How dare you look at me so! I have done 
nothing wrong. He says many other people do the' 
same thing and — and I won’t be looked at so. I shall 
not tell you another word. Y ou — you look as if I was 
going to do something wicked and dreadful.” And she 
flung herself face downward upon the sofa cushions and 
broke into a passionate, excited sob. 

Then Dolly could control herself no longer. She 
flashed out into quite a little storm of pitying love, and 
wrath and scorn against this cool, systematic scoundrel, 
who would have wrought such harm against such simple 
ignorance of the world. What had they not saved her 
from, poor, foolish child ? She clenched her little, 
gloved hand and struck it against the sofa arm, the hot 
color flaming up on her cheeks and the fire lighting in 
her eyes. ^ 

“Mollie!” she exclaimed, “that is what is true? You 
are going to do something that is dreadful to think of, 
though you do not think so because you do not know 
the truth. And we have come to tell you the truth and 
save you. That man is a villain — he is the worst of vil- 
lains. He does not intend to marry you — he cannot 
marry you, and knowing he cannot, he has been laying 
traps for months to drag you down into a horrible pit of 
shame. Yes, of the bitterest grief and shame — poor, 


1 


224 


DOLLY. 


simple child as you are — for I must tell you the whole 
dreadful truth, though I would far rather hide it from 
you, if I could. There are some wicked, wicked men in 
the world, Mollie, and Gerald Chandos is one of the 
worst, for he has got a wife already.” 

It did not seem to be Mollie who sprang up from her 
cushions and confronted them with wide-opened eyes. 
Every bit of color had died out of her cheeks and lips, 
and she turned from one to the other with a wild, appeal- 
ing look. 

“ It isn’t true,” she insisted, desperately, but her voice 
was broken, and she sobbed out her words in her fright. 
“ It isn’t true ! It isn’t true ! You want to frighten me.” 
And all at once she ran to Ralph Gowan like a child and 
caught hold of his arm with her pretty, shaking hands. 
^‘Mr. Gowan,” she said, “you know, don’t you ? and you 
W’on’t — you won’t — Oh, where is Aimde ? I want Aimde ! 
Aimee isn’t like the rest of you ! would have made 

me go home without being so cruel as this.” And the 
next minute she turned so white and staggered so, that 
Dolly ran to her, and Gowan was. obliged to take her in 
his arms. 

“ Tell her that what I have said is true,” said Dolly^ 
crying. “ She will begin to understand then.” 

And so, while he held her, panting and sobbing and 
clinging to him, Gowan told her all that he had learned. 
He was as brief as possible and as tender as a woman. 
His heart so warmed toward the pretty, loveable, passion- 
ately-frightened creature, that his voice was far from 
steady as he told his story. 

She did not rebel an instant longer, then. Her terror, 
under the shock, rendered her only helpless and hysteri- 
cal. She had so far lost control over herself that she 


IN WHICH THERE IS AN EXPLOSION 225 

would have believed anything they .had chosen to tell 
her. 

“ Take me away,” she cried, whitening and shivering, 
all her bright, pretty color gone, all her wilful petulance 
struck down at a blow. “ Take me home — take me home 
to Aim^e. I want to go away from here before he comes. 
I want to go home and die.” 

How they got her down-stairs and into the carriage, 
Dolly scarcely knows. It was enough that they got her 
there and knew she was safe. Upon the table in the room 
above they had left a note directed to Mr. Gerald Chan- 
dos — Dolly had directed it and Dolly had written it. 

“ Is there pen and ink here ?” she had asked Gowan, 
and when he had produced the articles, she had bent over 
the table and dashed a few lines off with an unsteady yet 
determined hand. 

“There!” she had said, when she closed the envelope. 
“ Mr. Chandos will go to Brussels, I think, and he will 
understand why he goes alone, and, for my part, I incline 
to the belief that he will not trouble us again.” 

And in five minutes more they were driving toward 
Bloomsbury Place. 

But now the first exdtement was over, Dolly’s nerve 
began to fail her. Now Mollie was safe, she began to 
think of Griffith. It seemed a cruel trick of fortune’s to 
try his patience so sharply just at this very point. She 
knew so well what effect his hours of waiting would have 
upon him. But it was useless to rebel now, so she must 
bear it as well as she could, and trust to the result of her 
explanation. Yet despite her hope, every minute of the 
long drive seemed an age, and she grew feverish and 
restless and wretched. What if he had not waited, and 
was not there to listen to what she had to say ? Then 
15 


226 


DOLLY. 


there would be all the old trouble to face again— perhaps 
something worse. 

“It is nine o’clock,” she said, desperately, as they 
passed a lighted church tower. ” It is nine o’clock.” 
And she leaned back in her corner again, with her heart 
beating strongly. Her disappointment was so keen that 
she could have burst into a passion of tears. Her happy 
evening was gone, and her dream of simple pleasure had 
fled with its sacrificed hours. She could not help remem- 
bering this, and being quite conquered by the thought, 
even though Mollie was safe. 

They had settled what to do beforehand. At the cor- 
ner of the street Gowan was to leave them, and the two 
girls were to go in together, Mollie making her way at 
once to her room upon pretext of headache. A night’s 
rest would restore her self-control, and by the next 
morning she would be calm enough to face the rest, 
and so her wild escapade would end without risk of com- 
ment if she was sufficiently discreet to keep her own 
counsel. At present she was too thoroughly upset and 
frightened even to feel humiliation. 

“ Nearly half-past nine,” said Gowan, as he assisted 
them to descend to the pavement at their journey’s 
end. 

The light from an adjacent lamp showed him that the 
face under Dolly’s hat was a very pale and excited one, 
and her eyes were shining and large with repressed tears 
as she gave him her hand. 

I cannot find words to thank you just yet,” she said, 
low and hurriedly. “ I wish I could ; but — you know 
what you have helped me to save Mollie from to-night, 
and so you know what my gratitude must be. The next 
time I see you, perhaps, I shall be able to say what I 


m WHICH THERE IS AN EXPLOSION. 


227 

wish, but now I can only say good-night, and — oh, God 
bless you !” And the little hand fairly wrung his. 

Mollie shook hands with him, trembling and almost 
reluctantly. She was pale, too, and her head drooped as 
if it would never more regain the old trick of wilful, 
regal carriage. 

“ You have been very kind to take so much trouble,” 
she said. “You were kinder than I deserved — both of 
you.” 

“ Now,” said Dolly, when he sprang into the cab, and 
they turned away together. “ Now for getting into the 
house as quietly as possible. No,” trying to speak 
cheerily, and as if their position was no great matter, 
“ you mustn’t tremble, Mollie, and you mustn’t cry. It 
is all over now, and everything is so commonplace and 
easy to manage as can be. You have been out, and have 
got the headache, and are going to bed. That is all. All 
the rest we must forget. Nothing but a headache, Mollie, 
and a headache is not much, so we won’t fret about it. 
If it had been a heartache, and sin and shame and sorrow 
—but it isn’t. But, Mollie,” they had already reached 
the house then, and stood upon the steps, and she turned 
to the girl and put a hand on each of her shoulders, 
speaking tremulously, “when you go up-stairs, kneel 
down by your bedside and say your prayers, and thank 
God that it isn’t — thank God that it isn’t, with all your 
heart and soul,” and she kissed her cheek softly just as 
they heard Aimde coming down the hall to open the door. 

“ Dolly !” she exclaimed, when she saw them, “ where 
have you been ? Griffith has been here since five, and 
now he is out looking for you. I had given you up 
entirely, but he would not. He fancied you had been 
delayed by something.” 


228 


DOLLY. 


“ I have been delayed by something,” said Dolly, her 
heart failing her again. “And here is Mollie, with the 
headache. You had better go to bed, Mollie. How long 
is it since Grif left the house ?” 

“ Scarcely ten minutes,” was the answer. “ It is a won- 
der you did not meet him. Oh, Dolly !” ominously, “ how 
unlucky you are!” 

Dolly quite choked in her effort to be decently com- 
posed in manner. 

“ I a7n unlucky,” she said, and without saying more, 
she made her way into the parlor. 

She took her hat off there and tossed it on the sofa, 
utterly regardless of consequences, and then dropped 
into her chair and looked round the room. It did not 
look as she had pictured it earlier in the day. Its cheer- 
fulness was gone, and it looked simply desolate. The fire 
had sunk low in the grate, and the hearth was strewn 
with dead ashes — somehow or other, everything seemed 
chilled and comfortless. She was too late for the bri^ht- 
ness and warmth — a few hours before it had been bright 
and warm, and Grif had been there waiting for her. 
Where was he now ? She dropped her face on the arm 
of her chair with a sob of disappointed feeling and fore- 
boding. What if he had seen them leave Ralph Gowan, 
and had gone home 1 

“ It’s too bad 1” she cried. “ It is cruel I I can’t bear 
it I Oh, Grif, do come 1” and her tears fell thick and 
fast. 

Ten minues later she started up with a little cry of 
joy and relief That was his footstep upon the pave- 
ment, and before he had time to ring she was at the 
door. She could scarcely speak to him in her excite- 
ment. 


ijsr wHian there is an explosion 229 

“Oh, Grif!” she said ; “ Grif— darling !” 

But he did not offer to touch her, and strode past her 
outstretched hands. 

“Come into this room with me,” he said, hoarsely, 
and the simple sound of his voice struck her to the 
heart like a blow. 

She followed him trembling, and when they stood in 
the light, and she saw his deathly, passion-wrung face, 
her hand crept up to her side and pressed against it. 

He had a package in his hand — a package of letters — 
and he laid them down on the table. 

“ I have been home for these,” he said. “Your letters 
— I have brought them back to you.” 

“Grif!” she cried out. 

He waved her back. 

“No,” he said, “never mind that. It is too late for 
that now, that is all over. Good God! all over!” and he 
panted for breath. “I have been in this room waiting 
for you,” he struggled on, “ since five o’clock. I came 
with my heart full to the brim. I have dreamt about 
what this evening was to be to us every night, for a 
week. I was ready to kneel and kiss your feet. I 
waited hour after hour. I was ready to pray — yes, to 
pray, like a fool — that I might hold you in my arms 
before the night ended. Not half an hour ago I went 
out to see if you were coming. And you were coming. 
At the corner of the street you were bidding good-night 
to — to Ralph Gowan ” 

“ Listen !” she burst forth. “ Mollie was with me ” 

“Ralph Go wan was with you,” he answered her; “it 
does not matter who else was there. You had spent 
those hours in which I wanted you with him. That was 
enough — nothing can alter that.” And then all at once 


230 


DOLLY. 


he came and stood near her, and looked down at her 
with such anguish in his eyes, that she could have 
shrieked aloud. “ It was a poor trick to play, Dolly,” 
he said; “so poor a one, that it was scarcely like you. 
Your coquetries had always a fairer look. The com- 
monest jilt might have done such a thing as that, and 
almost have done it better. It is an old trick, too, this 
playing the poor fool against the rich one. The only 
merit of your play has been that you have kept it up so 
long.” 

He was almost mad, but he might have seen that he 
was trying her too far, and that she would break down 
all at once. The long strain of the whole evening ; his 
strange, unnatural mood ; her struggle against wretch- 
edness, all were too much for her to bear. She tried to 
speak, and failing, fought for strength, sobbed thrice, a 
terrible, hysterical sob, like a child’s, and then turned 
white and shivered, without uttering a word. 

“Yes,” he said, “a long time, Dolly” — but his sen- 
tence was never ended, for that instant she went down 
as if she had been shot, and lay near his feet quivering 
for a second, and then lying still. 

He was not stayed even then. He bent down and 
lifted her in his arms and carried her to the sofa, pale 
himself, but not relenting. He seemed to have lived 
past the time when the pretty, helpless figure, in all its 
simple finery, would have stirred him to such ecstacy of 
pain. He was mad enough to have believed even her 
helplessness a lie, only that the cruel, ivory pallor was 
so real. He did not even stoop to kiss her when he 
turned away. Biit all the treasure of faith and truth and 
love had died out of his face, the veriest dullard could 
have seen ; his very youth had dropped away from him, 


m WHICH THERE IS AN EXPLOSION. 


231 


and he left the old, innocent dreams behind, with some- 
thing like self-scorn. 

“ Good-by,” he said; ‘‘we have lost a great deal, Dolly 
— or I have lost it, I might say. And even you — I be- 
lieve it pleased even you until better fortune came ; so, 
perhaps, you have lost something, too.” 

Then he went to the bell and touched it, and having 
done so, strode out into the narrow hall, opened the front 
door and was gone, and when, a few minutes later, 
Aimee came running down to answer the strange sum- 
mons, she found only the silent room, Dolly’s white, 
piteous face upon the sofa-cushion, and the great pack- 
age of those old, sweet, foolish letters upon the table. 


232 


DOLLY. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A DEAD LETTER. 

I T was all over — all over at last. 

Dolly’s first words had said this much when she 
opened her eyes, and found Aimee bending over her. 

“ Has he gone ?” she had asked. “ Did he go away 
and leave me ?” 

“ Do you mean Grif ?” said Aimde. 

She made a weak gesture of assent. 

“Yes,” Aimee answered. “He must have gone. I 
heard the bell ring and found you lying here when I 
came to see what it meant.” 

“ Then,” said Dolly, “ all is over — all is over at last.’' 
And she turned her face upon the cushion and lay so still 
that she scarcely seemed to breathe. 

“ Take another drink of water, Dolly,” said Aimee, 
keeping back her questions with her usual discretion. 
“You must, dear.” 

But Dolly did not stir. 

“ I don’t want any more,” she said. “ I am not going 
to faint again. You have no need to be afraid. I don’t 
easily faint, you know, and I should not have fainted just 
now only — that the day has been a very hard one for me, 
and somehow I lost strength all at once. I am not ill — 
only worn out.” 

“You must be very much worn out, then,” said Aimee; 


A DEAD LETTER, 


233 


^‘more worn out than I ever saw you before. You had 
better let me help you up-stairs to bed.” 

“ I don’t want to go to bed yet !*’ in a strange, choked 
voice, and the next moment Aimde saw her hands clench 
themselves and her whole frame begin to shake. “ Shut 
the door and lock it,” she said wildly. I can’t stop 
myself. Give me some sal volatile. I can’t breathe.” 
And such a fit of suffocating sobbing came upon her that 
she writhed and battled for air. 

Aim^e flung herself upon her knees by her side, shed- 
ding tears herself. 

^‘Oh, Dolly,” she pleaded, “Dolly, darling, don’t. Try 
to help yourself against it. I know what the trouble is. 
He went away angry and disappointed, and it has fright- 
ened you. Oh, please don’t, darling. He will came back 
to-morrow, he will, indeed. He always does, you know, 
and he will be so sorry.” 

“ He has gone forever,” Dolly panted, when she could 
speak. “He will never come back. To-night has been 
different to any other time. No,” gasping and sobbing, 
“ it is fate. Fate is against us — it always was against us. 
I think God is against us, and oh, how can He be ? He 
might pity us — we tried so hard and loved each other so 
much. We didn’t ask for anything but each other — we 
didn’t want anything but that we might be allowed to 
cling together all our lives and work and help each other. 
Oh, Grif, my darling — oh, Grif, my dear, my dear !” 
And the sobs rising again and conquering her were such 
an agony that Aim^e caught her in her arms. 

“ Dolly,” she said, “ you must not, you must not, in- 
deed. You will die, you'can’t bear it.” 

“ No,” she wailed, “ I can’t bear it — that is what it is. 

I can’t bear it. It is too hard to bear. But there is no 


234 


DOLLY. 


one to help me — God won’t. He does not care for us or 
He would have given us just one little crumb out of all 
He has to give. What can a poor, helpless girl be to 
Him ? He is too high and great to care for our poor, 
little, powerless griefs. Oh, how wicked I am !” in a fresh 
burst. “ See how I rebel at the first real blow. It is be- 
cause I am so wicked, perhaps, that all has been taken 
from me — all I had in the world. It is because I loved 
Grif best. I have read in books that it was always so. 
Oh, why is it? I can’t understand it. It seems cruel — 
yes, it does seem cruel — as cruel as death, to give him 
to me only that I might suffer when he was taken away. 
Oh, Grif, my darling ! Grif, my love, my dear !” 

This is over again and again, with wild, heart-broken 
weeping, until she was so worn out that she could cry 
no more, and lay upon Aimee’s arm upon the cushion, 
white and exhausted, with heavy purple rings about her 
wearied, sunken eyes. It was not until then that Aim^e 
heard the whole truth. She had only been able to guess 
at it before, and now hearing the particulars, she could 
not help fearing the worst. 

It was just as she had feared it would be, another 
blow bad come upon him at the very time when he was 
least able to bear it, and it had been too much for him. 
But she could not reveal her forebodings to Dolly. She 
must comfort her and persuade her to hope for the best. 

“You must go to bed, Dolly,” she said, “and try to 
sleep, and in the morning everything will look differ- 
ently. He may come, you know — it would be just like 
him to come before breakfast. But if he does not come 
— suppose,” hesitatingly, “ suppose I was to write to him, 
or — suppose you were to ?” 

She was half afraid that pride would rise against this 


A DEAD LETTER. 


235 


plan, but she was mistaken. Seven years of- love had 
mastered pride. Somehow or other pride had never 
seemed to come between them in their little quarrels, 
each had always been too passionately eager to concede, 
and too sure of being met with tenderest penitence. 
Dolly had always known too confidently that her first 
relenting word would touch Grif’s heart, and Grif had 
always been too sure that his first half-softened reproach 
would bring the girl to his arms in an impetuous burst of 
loving repentance. No, it was scarcely likely that other 
people’s scruples would keep them apart. So Dolly 
caught at the proposal almost eagerly. 

“ Yes,” she said, “I will write and tell him how it was. 
It was not his fault, was it, Aimde ? How could I have 
borne such a thing myself? It would have driven me 
wild, as it did him. It was not unreasonable at all that 
he should refuse to listen, in his first excitement, after he 
had waited all those hours and suffered such a disap- 
pointment. And then to see what he did. My poor 
boy ! he was not to blame at all. Yes, yes,” feverishly, 
"‘I will write to him and tell him. Suppose I write now 
— don’t you think I had better do it now, and then he 
will get the letter in the morning, and he will be sure to 
come before dinner — he will be sure to come, won’t he ?’^ 

“He always did,” said Aimde. 

“Always,” said Dolly. “Indeed, I never had to write 
to him before to bring him. He always came without 
being written to. There never was any one like him for 
being tender and penitent. You always said so, Aim^e. 
And just think how often I have tried his patience! I 
sometimes wish I could help doing things — flirting, you 
know, and making a joke of it. He never flirted in his 
life, poor darling, and what right had I to do it ? When 


236 


DOLLY. 


he comes to-morrow I will tell him how sorry I am for 
everything, and I will promise to be better. I have not 
been half so good as he has. I wish I had. I should 
not have hurt him so often if I had.” 

“You have been a little thoughtless sometimes,” said 
Aim^e. “ Perhaps it would have been better if you could 
have helped it.” 

“A little thoughtless,” said Dolly, restlessly. “ I have 
been wickedly thoughtless . sometimes. And I have 
made so many resolutions and broken them all. And I 
ought to have been doubly thoughtful, because he had 
so much to bear. If he had been prosperous and happy 
it would not have mattered half so much. But it was 
all my vanity. You don’t know how vain I am, Aimde. 
I quite hate myself when I think of it. It is the want- 
ing people to admire me — everybody, men and women 
and even children — particularly among Lady Augusta’s 
set, where there is a sort of fun in it. And then I flirt 
before I know ; and then, of course, Grif cannot help 
seeing it. I wonder that he has borne with me so long.” 

She was quite feverish in her anxiety to condemn her- 
self and exculpate her lover. She did not droop her 
face against the pillow, but roused herself, turning 
toward Aimde, and talking fast and eagerly. A bright 
spot of color came out on either cheek, though for the 
rest she was pale enough. But to Aim^e’s far-seeing 
eyes there was something so forced and unnaturally 
strung in her sudden change of mood that she felt a 
touch of dread. Suppose something should crush her 
newly-formed hopes — something terrible and unfore- 
seen ! She felt a chill strike her to the heart at the mere 
thought of such a possibility. She knew Dolly better 
than the rest of them did — knew her highly-strung tern- 


A DEAD LETTER. 


237 


perament, and feared it, too. She might be spirited, and 
audacious, and thoughtless, but a blow coming through 
Grif would crush her to the earth. 

“You — you mustn’t set your heart too much upon his 
getting the letter in the morning, Dolly,” she said. “ He 
might be away when it came, or — or twenty things, and 
he might not see it until night, but ” 

“Well,” said Dolly, “I will write it at once if you will 
give me the pen and ink. The earlier it is posted the 
earlier he will get it.” 

She tried to rise then, but when she stood up her 
strength seemed to fail her, and she staggered and 
caught at Aimee’s arm. But the next minute she 
laughed. 

“How queer that on^ little faint should make me so 
weak!” she said. “I am weak — actually. I shall feel 
right enough when I sit down, though.” 

She sat down at the table with her writing materials, 
and Aim^e remained upon the sofa watching her. Her 
hand trembled when she wrote the first few lines, but 
she seemed to become steadier afterward, and her pen 
dashed over the paper without a pause for a few minutes. 
The spot of color on her cheeks faded and burned by 
turns — sometimes it was gone, and again it was scarlet, 
and before the second page was finished tears were fall- 
ing soft and fast. Once she even stopped to wipe them 
away, because they blinded her, but when she closed the 
envelope she did not look exactly unhappy, though her 
whole face was tremulous. 

“ He will come back,” she said, softly. “ He will 
come back when he reads this, I know. I wish it was 
to-morrow. To-morrow night he will be here, and we 


238 


DOLLY. 


shall have our happy evening after all. I can excuse 
myself to Miss MacDowlas for another day.” 

“Yes,” said Aimfee, a trifle slowly, as she took it from 
her hand. “I will send Belinda out with it now.” And 
she carried it out of the room. 

In a few minutes she returned. “ She has taken it,” 
she said. “And now you had better go to bed, Dolly.” 

But Dolly’s color had' faded again, and she was rest- 
ing her forehead upon her hands, with a heavy, anxious, 
worn look, which spoke of sudden reaction. She lifted 
her face with a half-absent air. 

“I hope it will be in time for to-night’s post,” she said. 
“Do you think it will?” 

“ I am not quite sure, but I hope so. You must come 
to bed, Dolly.” 

She got up without saying more, and followed her out 
into the hall, but at the foot of the staircase she stopped. 

“I have not seen Tod,” she said. “Let us go into 
’Toinette’s room and ask her to let us have him to-night. 
We can carry him up-stairs without wakening him. I 
have done it many a time. I should like to have him in 
my arms to-night.” 

So they turned into Mrs. Phil’s room, and found that 
handsome young matron sitting in her dressing-gown 
before the fire, brushing out her great dark mantle of 
hair. 

“Don’t waken Tod,” she cried out as usual; and then 
when she saw Dolly she broke into a whispered volley 
of wondering questions. Where in the world had she 
been ? What had she been doing with herself until such 
an hour? Where was Grif? Wasn’t he awfully vexed? 
What had he said when she came in ? All of which 
inquiries the two parried as best they might. 


A DEAD LETTER. 


239 


As to Tod — well, Tod turned her thoughts in another 
direction. He was a beauty, and a king, and a darling, 
and he was growing sweeter and brighter every day — 
which comments, by the way, were always the first made 
upon the subject of the immortal Tod. He was so ami- 
able, too, and so clever, and so little trouble. He went 
to sleep in his crib every night at seven, and never awak- 
ened until morning. Aunt Dolly might look at him now 
with those Wo precious middle fingers in his little mouth. 
And Aunt Dolly did look at him, lifting the cover 
slightly, and bending over him as he lay there making a 
deep dent in his small, plump pillow — a very king of 
babies, soft, and round, and warm, the white lids drooped 
and fast closed over his dark eyes, their long fringes 
making a faint shadow on his fair, smooth baby cheeks, 
the two fingers in his sweet mouth, the round, cleft chin 
turned up, the firm, tiny white pillar of a throat bare. 

“ Oh, my bonnie baby!” cried Dolly, the words rising 
from the bottom of her heart. “ How fair and sweet 
you are 1” 

They managed to persuade Mrs. Phil to allow them to 
take possession of him for the night, and when they went 
up-stairs Dolly carried him, folded warmly in his downy 
blanket, and held close and tenderly in her arms. 

“Aunt Dolly’s precious I” Aim^e heard her whisper- 
ing to him as she gave him a last soft good-night kiss 
before they fell asleep. “Aunt Dolly’s comfort! Every- 
thing is not gone so long as he is left.” 

But she evidently passed a restless night. When 
Aim^e awakened in the morning she found her standing 
by the bedside, dressed and looking colorless and heavy- 
eyed. 

“ I never was so glad to see morning in my life,” she 


240 


DOLLY. 


said. '' I thought the day would never break. I — I 
wonder how long it will be before Grif will be reading 
his letter ?” 

“ He may get it before nine o’clock,” answered Aim^e; 
but don’t trouble about it, or the day will seem twice as 
long. Take Tod down-stairs and wash and dress him. 
It will give you something else to think of” 

The wise one herself had not slept well. Truth to say, 
she was troubled about more matters than One. She was 
troubled to account for the meaning of Dolly’s absence 
with Gowan. Even in her excitement, Dolly had not 
felt the secret quite her own, and had only given a skele- 
ton explanation of the true state of affairs. 

“ It was something about Mollie and Gerald Chandos,” 
she had said ; “ and if I had not gone it would have been 
worse than death to Mollie. Don’t ask me to tell you 
exactly what it was, because I can’t. Perhaps Mollie 
will explain herself before many days are over. She 
always tells you everything, you know. But it was no 
real fault of hers ; she was silly, but not wicked, and she is 
safe from Gerald Chandos now forever. And I saved 
her, Aim^e.” 

And so the wise one had lain awake and thought of 
all sorts of possible and impossible escapades: But as 
she was dressing herself this morning the truth flashed 
upon her, though it was scarcely the whole truth. 

“ She was going to elope with him,” she exclaimed all 
at once ; “ that was what she was going to do. Oh, Mol- 
lie, Mollie, what a romantic goose you are!” 

And having reached this solution, she closed her small, 
determined mouth in discreet silence, resolving to wait 
for Mollie’s confession, which she knew was sure to 
come sooner or later. As to Mollie herself, she came 


A DEAD LETTER. 


241 


down subdued and silent. She had slept off the effects 
of her first shock, but had by no means forgotten it. She 
would never forget it, poor child, as long as she lived, 
and she was so grateful to find herself safe in the shabby 
rooms again, that she had very little to say ; and since 
she was in so novel a mood, the members of the family 
who werfe not in the secret decided that her headache 
must have been a very severe one indeed. 

“ Don’t say anything to her about Grif,” Dolly cau- 
tioned Aim^e, “ it would only trouble her.” And so the 
morning passed; but even at twelve o’clock there was 
no Grif, and Dolly began to grow restless and walk to 
and fro from the window to the hearth at very short in- 
tervals. Dinner-hour arrived too, but still no arrival; 
and Dolly sat at the table, among them, eating nothing 
and saying little enough. How could she talk when 
every step upon the pavement set her heart bounding? 
When dinner was over and Phil had gone back to the 
studio, she looked so helpless and woebegone that Aim^e 
felt constrained to comfort her. 

“ It may have been delayed,” she whispered to her, ^‘or 
he may have left the house earlier than usual, and so 
won’t see it until to-night. He will be here to-night, 
Dolly, depend upon it.” 

And so they waited. Ah, how that window was 
watched that afternoon ! How often Dolly started from 
her chair and ran to look out, half-suffocated by fier 
heart-beatings ! But it was of no avail. As twilight 
came on she took her station before it, and knelt upon 
the carpet for an hour watching, but in the end she 
turned away all at once, and running to the fire again, 
caught Tod up in her arms, and startled Aimde by burst- 
ing into a passion of tears. 

16 . 


242 


DOLLY. 


Oh, Tod !” she sobbed, “ he is not coming ! He will 
never come again— he has left us for ever ! Oh, Tod, 
love poor Aunt Dolly, darling.” And she hid her face 
on the little fellow’s shoulder, crying piteously. 

She did not go to the window again. When she was 
calmer, she remained on her chair, colorless and ex- 
hausted, but clinging to Tod still in a queer pathetic way, 
and letting him pull at her collar and her ribbons and her 
hair. The touch of his relentless baby hands and his 
pretty, tyrannical, restless ways seemed to help her a 
little and half distract her thoughts. 

She became quieter and quieter as the evening waned, 
indeed she was so quiet that Aimde wondered. She was 
strangely pale, but she did not start when footsteps were 
heard on the street, and she ceased turning toward the 
door when it opened. 

“ He — he may come in the morning,” Aim^e faltered 
as they went up-stairs to bed. 

“ No, he will not,” she answered her quite steadily. 
“ It will be as I said it would — he will never come 
again.” 

But when they reached their room, the unnatural, 
strained quiet gave way, and she flung herself upon the 
bed, sobbing and fighting against just the hysterical suf- 
fering which had conquered her the night before. 

It was the very ghost of the old indomitable Dolly who 
rose the next morning; Her hands shook as she dressed 
her hair, and there were shadows under her eyes. But 
she must go back to Brabazon Lodge notwithstanding. 

I can say I have a nervous headache,” she said to 
Aimde. “ Nervous headaches are useful things.” 

“ If a letter comes,” said Aimee, “ I will bring it to you 
myself.” 


A DEAD LETTEBt 


243 


The girl turned toward her suddenly, her eyes hard 
and bright and her mouth working. 

“ I have had my last letter,” she said. “ My last let- 
ters came to me when Grif laid that package upon the 
table. He has done with me.” 

“ Done with you ?” cried Aimee, frightened by her 
manner. “ With j/ou, Dolly ?” 

Then for the first time Dolly flushed scarlet to the 
very roots of her hair. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ he has done with me. If there had 
been half a chance that he would ever come near me 
again, the .letter I wrote to him that night would have 
brought him. A word of it would have brought him — 
the first word. But he is having his revenge by treating 
it with contempt. He is showing me that it is too late, 
and that no humility on my part can tduch him. I 

scarcely could have thought that of him ” dropping 

into chair by the toilet-table and hiding her face in her 
hands. 

“ It is not like Grif to let me humble myself for no- 
thing. And I did humble myself — ah, how I did humble 
myself! That letter — if you could have seen it, Aimde 
— it was all on fire with love for him. I laid myself 
under his feet — and he has trodden me down I Grif — 
Grif, it wasn’t like you — it wasn’t worthy of you — it 
wasn’t indeed 1” • 

Her worst enemy would have felt herself avenged if 
she had heard the anguish in her voice. She was crushed 
to the earth under this last great blow of feeling that he 
had altered so far. • Grif— her whilom greatest help and 
comfort — the best gift God had given her ! Dear, old, 
tender, patient fellow ! as she had been wont to call him 
in her fits of penitence. Grif, whose arms had always 


244 


DOLLY, 


been open to her at her best and at her worst, who had 
loved her and borne with her, and waited upon her and 
done her bidding since they were both little more than 
children. When had Grif ever turned from her before ? 
Never. When had Grif ever been cold or unfaithful in 
word or deed ? Never. When had he ever failed her ? 
Never — never — never — -until now ! And now that he had 
failed her at last, she felt that the bitter end had come. 
The end to everything — to all the old hopes and dreams, 
to all the old sweet lovers’ quarrels and meetings and 
partings, to all their clinging together, to all the volumes 
and volumes of love and trust that lay in the past, to all 
the world of simple bliss that lay still unrevealed in their 
lost future, to all the blessed old days when they had 
pictured to each other what that future was to be. It had 
all gone for nothing in the end. It must all have gone 
for nothing, when Grif — a new Grif — not her own true, 
staunch, patient darling — not her own old lover — could 
read her burning, tender, suffering words and pass them 
by without a word of answer. And with this weight of 
despair and pain upon her heart, she went back to the 
wearisome routine of Brabazon Lodge — went back heavy 
with humiliation and misery which she scarcely realized , 
— went back suffering as no one who knew her — not 
even Grif himself — could ever have understood that it 
was possible for her to suffer. No innocent coquetries 
now, no spirit, no jests, for the present at least she had 
done with them, too. 

“ You are not in your usual spirits, my dear,” said Miss 
MacDowlas. 

“No,” she answered, quietly, “I am not.” 

This state of affairs continued for four days, and then 
one morning, sitting at her sewing in the breakfast-room, 


A DEAD .LETTER, 


245 


she was startled almost beyond self-control by a ser- 
vant’s announcement that a visitor had arrived. 

“ One of your sisters, ma’am,” said the parlor paid. 
“Not the youngest, I think.” 

She was in the room in two seconds, and flewto Aimee, 
trembling all over with excitement. 

“ Not a letter !’* she cried, hysterically. “ It isn’t a 
letter — it can’t be !” and she put her hand to her side and 
fairly panted. 

The poor little wise one confronted her with something 
like fear. She could not bear to tell her the ill-news she 
had come to break. 

“ Dolly, dear !” she said, “ please sit down ; and — please 
don’t look at me so. It isn’t good news. I must tell 
you the truth, it is bad news, cruel news. Oh, don’t look 
so !” 

They were standing near the sofa, and Dolly gave one 
little moan, and sank down beside it. 

“ Cruel news !” she cried, throwing up her hand. “Yes, 
I might have known that — I might have known that it 
would be cruel, if it was news at all. Every one is cruel 
— the whole world is cruel; even Grif — even Grif!” 

Aim^e burst into tears. 

“ Oh, Dolly, I did my best for you !” she said. “I did, 
indeed ; but you must try to bear it, dear — it is your own 
letter back again.” 

Then the kneeling figure seemed to stiffen and grow 
rigid in a second. Dolly turned her deathly face, with 
her eyes aflame and dilated. 

“ Did he send it back to me ?” she asked, in a slow, 
fearful whisper. 

Her expression was so hard and dreadful a one that 
Aim^e sprang to her side and caught hold of her. 


246 


DOLLY. 


“ No— no !” she said; “not so bad asrthat ! He would 
never have done that. He has never had it. He has 
gone away; we don’t know where. It came from the 
dead-letter office.” 

Dolly took the letter from her and opened it slowly, 
and there, as she knelt, read it, word for word, as if it 
had been something she had never seen before. Then 
she put it back into the envelope and laid it down. 

“A dead letter!” she said. “A dead letter! If ^^had 
sent it back to me, I think it would have cured me; but 
there is no cure for me at all. If he had read it, 
he would have come — if he had only read it ; but it is a 
dead letter, and he is gone.” 

There were no tears, the blow had been too heavy. It 
was only Aim^e who had tears to shed, and it was Dolly 
who tried to console her in a strained, weary sort of way. 

“ Don’t cry,” she said, “ it is all over now. Perhaps 
the worst part of the pain is past. There will be no 
house at Putney, and the solitary rose-bush will bloom 
for some one else ; they may sell the green sofa, now, as 
cheap as they will, we shall never buy it. Our seven 
years of waiting have all ended in a dead letter.” 


SEVEN LONG YEARS, BELOVED, 


247 


CHAPTER XIV. 

SEVEN LONG YEARS, BELOVED, SEVEN LONG YEARS. 

ND SO Grif disappeared from the haunts of Vaga- 



Jl\. bondia, and was seen no more. Arid to Aimde 
was left the delicate task of explaining the cause of his 
absence, which, it must be said, she did in a manner at 
once creditable to her tact and affection for both Dolly 
and the unconscious cause of all her misery. 

“There has been a misunderstanding,” she said, “which 
was no fault of Dolly’s, and scarcely a fault of Grif’s ; 
and it has ended very unhappily, and Grif has gone 
away, and just at present it seems as if ‘everything was 
over — but I can’t help hoping it is not so bad as that.” 

“ Oh, he will come back again — safe enough,” com- 
mented Phil, philosophically, holding paint-brush No. i 
in his mouth, while he manipulated with No. 2. “ He 

will come back in sackcloth and ashes ; he is just that 
sort, you know — thunder and lightning, fire and tow. 
And they will make it up ecstatically in secret, and pre- 
tend that nothing has been the matter, and there will be 
no going into the parlor for weeks without whistling all 
the way across the hall.” 

“ I always go in backward after they have had a quar- 
rel,” said Mollie, looking up from a half-made pinafore of 
Tod’s, which, in the zeal of her repentance, she had de* 
cided on finishing. 


248 


DOLLY. 


“Not a bad plan, either,” said Phil. “We all know 
how their differences of opinion terminate. As to matters 
being at an end between them, that is all nonsense; they 
couldn’t live without each other six months. Dolly 
would take to unbecoming bonnets, and begin to neglect 
her back hair, and Grif would take to prussic acid or 
absinthe.” 

“ Well, I hope he will come back,” said Aim^e ; “ but, 
in the meantime, I want to ask you to let the affair rest 
altogether, and not say a word to Dolly when she comes. 
It will be the kindest thing you can do. Just let things 
go on as they have always done, and ignore everything 
new you may see.” 

Phil looked up from his easel in sudden surprise; 
something in her voice startled him, serenely as he was 
apt to view all unexpected intelligence. 

“ I say,” he broke out, “you don’t mean that Dolly is 
very much cut up about it?” 

The fair little, oracle hesitated ; remembering Dolly’s 
passionate despair and grief over that “ dead letter,” she 
could scarcely trust herself to speak. 

“Yes,” she answered at last, feeling it would be best 
only to commit herself in Phil’s own words, “she is very 
much cut up.” 

“Whew!” whistled Phil; “that is worse than I 
thought!” and the matter ended in his going back to 
his picture and painting furiously for a few minutes, with 
an almost reflective air. 

They did not see anything of Dolly for weeks. She 
wrote to them now and then, but she did not pay another 
visit to Bloomsbury Place. It was not the c5ld home to 
her now, and she dreaded seeing it in its new aspect — 
the aspect which was desolate of Grif Most of her 


SEVEN LONG TEARS, BELOVED. 


249 


letters came to Aim^e ; but she rarely referred to her 
trouble, rather seeming to avoid it than otherwise. And 
the letters themselves were bright enough, seeming, too. 
She had plenty to say about Miss MacDowlas and their 
visitors and her own duties ; indeed, any one but Aimee 
would have been puzzled by her courage and apparent 
good spirits. But Aim^e saw beyond the surface, and 
understood, and understanding, was fonder of her than 
ever. 

As both Dolly and herself had expected, Mollie did * 
not keep her secret from the oracle many weeks. It was 
too much for her to bear alone, and one night, in a fit of 
candor and remorse, she poured out everything from first 
to last, all her simple and unsophisticated dreams of 
grandeur, all her gullibility, all her danger — everything, 
indeed, but the story of her pitiful little fancy for Ralph 
Gowan. She could not give that up, even to Aimde, 
though at the close of her confidence she was unable to 
help referring to him. 

'‘And, as to Mr. Gowan,” she said, “how can I ever 
speak to him again ! but, perhaps, he would not speak to 
me. He must think I am wdcked and bold and hardehed 
— and bad,” with a fresh sob at every adjective. “Oh, 
dear! oh, dear!” burying her face in Aimee’s lap, “if I 
had only stayed at home and been good, like you. He 
could have respected me, at least, couldn’t he ? And, 
now — oh, what am I to do !” 

Aim^e could not help sighing. If she only had stayed 
at home, how much happier they all might have been ! 
But she had promised Dolly not to add to her unhappi- 
ness by hinting at the truth, so she kept her own counsel. 

It was fully three months before they saw Ralph Gowan 
again. He had gone on the continent, they heard. The 


250 


DOLLY, 


fact was, delicacy had prompted the journey. As long 
as he remained in London, he could scarcely drop out 
of his old friendly position at Bloomsbury Place^ and he 
felt that for a while at least Mollie would scarcely find it 
easy to face him. So he went away and rambled about 
until he thought she would have time to get over her 
first embarrassment. 

But at the end of the three months he came back, and 
one afternoon surprised them all by appearing amongst 
*them again. Mollie, sitting perseveringly at w^ork over 
her penitential sewing, shrank a little, and dropped her 
eyelids when he came in, but she managed to behave 
herself with creditable evenness of manner after all, and 
the rest welcomed him warmly. 

‘‘ I have been to Brabazon Lodge,” he said at length 
to Aim^e. “ I spent Monday evening there, and was 
startled at the change I found in your sister. I did not 
know she was ill.” 

Aimde started herself, and looked up at him with a 
frightened face. 

“ 111 !” she said. • “ Did you say ill ?” 

It was his turn to be surprised then. 

I thought her looking ill,” he answered. “ She 
seemed to me to be both paler and thinner. But you 
must not let me alarm you — I thought, of course, that 
you would know.” 

“She has never mentioned it in her letters,” Aimde 
said. “And she has not been home for three months, so 
we have not seen her.” 

“ Don’t let me give you a false impression,” returned 
Gowan, eagerly. “ She seemed in excellent spirits, and 
was quite her old self ; indeed, I scarcely should imagine 
that she herself placed sufficient stress upon the state of 


• SEVEN LONG FEARS, BELOVED. 251 

her health. She insisted that she was well when I spoke 
to her about it” 

“I am very glad you told me,” answered Aim^e. 
‘‘She is too indifferent sometimes. I am afraid she 
would not have let us know. I thank you, very much.” 

He had other thanks before he left the house. As he 
was going out, Mollie, in her character of porteress, 
opened the hall door for ,him, and, having opened it, 
stood there with Tod’s new garment half concealed, a 
pair of timid eyes uplifted to his face, a small, trembling, 
feverish hand held out. 

“ Mr. Go wan,” she said, in a low, fluttering voice. 
“ Oh, if you please ” 

He took the little hot hand, feeling some tender 
remorse for not having tried to draw her out more and 
help her out of her painful shyness and restraint. 

“What is it, Mollie?” he asked. 

“ I want — I want,” fluttering all over, “I want to thank 
you better than I did that — that dreadful night. I was 
so frightened I could scarcely understand. I understand 
more — now — and I want to tell you how grateful I am — 
and how grateful I shall be until I die — and I want to 
ask you to try not to think I was very wicked. I did 
not mean to be wicked — I was only vain and silly, and I 
thought it would be such a grand thing to — to have 
plenty of new dresses,” hanging her sweet, humble face, 
“ and to wear diamonds, and be Lady Chandos, if — if Mr. 
Chandos came into the title. Of course that was wicked, 
but it wasn’t — I wasn’t as bad as I seemed. I was so 
vain that — that I was quite sure he loved me, and would 
be very glad if ^ married him. He always said he 
would.” And the tears rolled fast down her cheeks. 


252 


DOLLY. 


Poor Mollie !” said Gowan, patting the trembling 
hand as if it had been a baby’s. “ Poor child !” 

“ But,” Mollie struggled on penitently, “ I shall never 
be so foolish again. And I am going to try to be good 
— like Aim(^e. I am learning to mend things ; and I am 
beginning to make things for Tod. This,” holding up 
her work as proof, “ is a dress for him. It isn’t very 
well done,” with innocent dubiousness ; “ but Aim^e 
says I am improving. And so, if you please, would you 
be so kind as not to think quite so badly of me ?” 

It was all so humble, and pretty, and remorseful, that 
he was quite touched by it. That old temptation to kiss 
and console her made it quite dangerous for him to 
linger. She was such a lovable sight with her tear- wet 
cheeks, and that dubious but faithfully-worked-at gar- 
ment of Tod’s in her hand. 

“ Mollie,” he said, “ will you believe what I say to 
you?” 

“ Oh, yes !” eagerly. 

“ Then I say to you that I never believed you wicked 
for an instant — not for one instant; and now I believe it 
less than ever ; on the Contrary, I believe you are a good, 
honest little creature. Let us forget Gerald Chandos — 
he is not worth remembering. And go on with Tod’s 
pinafores and dresses, my dear, and don’t be discouraged 
if they are a failure at first — though to my eyes that 
dress is a most sumptuous affair. And as to being like 
Aim^e, you cannot be like any one better and wiser and 
sweeter than that same little maiden. There ! I mean 
every word I have said.” 

^‘Are you sure?” faltered Mollie. • 

“Yes,” he replied, “ quite sure.” 

He shook hands with her, and, bidding her good-night. 


SEVEN LONG YEARS, BELOVED. 253 

left her standing in the narrow hall all aglow with joy. 
And he, outside, was communing with himself as he 
walked away. 

“ She is as sweet in her way as — as the, other,” he was 
saying. “ And as well worth loving. And what a face 
she has, if one only saw it with a lover’s eyes ! What a 
face she has, even seeing it with such impartial eyes as 
mine !” 


“ My dear Dolly!’' said Aim^e. 

My dear Aimde !” said Dolly. 

These were the first words the two exchanged when, 
the evening after Ralph Gowan’s visit, the anxious young 
oracle presented herself at Brabazon Lodge, and was 
handed into Dolly’s bed-room. 

Visitors were expected, and Dolly had been dressing, 
and was just putting the finishing touches to her toilet 
when Aimde came in, and seeing her as she turned from 
the glass to greet her, the wise one could scarcely speak; 
and, even after she had been kissed most heartily, could 
only hold the girl’s hand and stand looking up into her 
changed face, feeling almost shocked. 

“ Oh, dear me, Dolly!” she said again. “ Oh, my dear, 
what have you been doing to yourself?” 

Doing !” echoed Dolly, just as sRe would have spoken 
three or four months ago. “ I have been doing nothing, 
and rather enjoying it. What is the matter with me ?” 
glancing into the mirror. “ Pale? That is the result of 
Miss MacDowlas’s beneficence, you ‘see. She has pre- 
sented me with this grand black silk gown, and it makes 
me look pale. Black always did, you know.” 

But notwithstanding her readiness of speech, it did not 
need another glance to understand what Ralph Gowan 


254 


DOLLY, 


had meant when he said that she was altered. She was 
altered. The lustreless heavy folds of her black silk 
might contrast sharply with her white skin, but they 
could not bring about that subtle, almost incomprehen- 
sible change in her whole appearance. It was such a 
subtle change that it really was difficult to comprehend. 
One could not say where it began or where it ended. 
The round, lissome figure she had always been so par- 
donably vain about, and Grif had so admired, had fallen 
a little — only a little — giving just the ghost of a hint at 
a greater change which might show itself sooner or later ; 
her face seemed a trifle more clearly cut than it ought to 
have been, and the slender throat, set in its surrounding 
Elizabethan frill of white, seemed just a trifle more slen- 
der than it had used to be. Every change slight enough 
in itself, but altogether giving a shadowy sort of sugges- 
tion of alteration to affectionately quick eyes. 

“You are ill,” said Aimee. “And you never told me. 
It was wrong of you. Don’t tell me it is your black 
dress ; your eyes are too big and bright for any one who 
is well, and your hand is thinner than it ever was before. 
Why I can feel the difference as I hold it, and it is as 
feverish as it can be.” 

“You good, silly little thing!” said Dollyj laughing. 
“ I am not ill at all. • I have caught a cold, perhaps, but 
that is all.” 

“ No, you have not,” contradicted Aimde, with pitiful 
sharpness. “You have not caught cold, and you must 
not tell me so. You are ill, and you have been ill for 
weeks. The worst of colds could never make you look 
like this. Mr. Gowan might well be startled and won- 
der ” 


SEVEN LONG YEARS, BELOVED. 


255 


“ Mr. Gowan !” Dolly interrupted her. “ Did he say 
that he was startled ?” 

“ Yes, he did,” Aimde answered. And that was what 
brought me here. He was at Bloomsbury Place last 
night and told me all about you, and I made up my mind 
that minute that I would come and judge for myself.” 

Then the girl gave in. She sat down on a chair by the 
dressing-table and rested her forehead on her hand, 
laughing faintly, as if in protest against her own subju- 
gation. 

“ Then I shall have to submit,” she said. “ The fact 
is, I sometimes fancy I do feel weaker than I ought to 
do. It isn’t like me to be weak. I was always so strong, 
you know — stronger than all the rest of you, I thought. 
Miss MacDowlas says I do not look well. I suppose,” 
with a half sigh, “ that every one will see it soon. Aim^e,” 
hesitating, “ don’t tell them at home.” 

Aim^e slipped an arm around her, and drew her head 
— dressed in all the old elaborateness of pretty coils and 
braids — upon her own •shoulder. 

“ Darling,” she whispered, trying to restrain her tears, 
I must tell them at home, because I must take you 
home to be nursed.” 

“ No, no !” said Dolly, starting, ‘Hhat would never do. 
It would never do even to think of it. I am not so ill 
as that — not ill enough to be nursed. Besides,” her 
voice sinking all at once, “ I couldn’t go home, Aim^e — 
I could not bear to go home now. That is why I have 
stayed away so long. I believe it would kill me ! 

It was impossible for Aim^e to hear this and be silent 
longer. She had, indeed, only been waiting for some 
reference to the past. 

“ I knew it was that,” she cried. “ I knew it the mo- 


256 


DOLLY, 


ment Mr. Gowan told me. And I have feared it from 
the first. Nothing but that could have broken you down 
like this. Dolly, if Grif could see you now, he would 
give his heart’s blood to undo what he has done.” 

The pale little hands lying upon the black dress began 
to tremble in a strange, piteous weakness. 

“ One cannot forget so much in so short a time,” 
Dolly pleaded. “And it is so much — more than even 
you think. One cannot forget seven years in three 
months — give me seven months, Aimee. I shall be bet- 
ter in time, when I have forgotten.” 

Forgotten ! Even those far duller of perception than 
Aimde could have seen that she would not soon forget. 
She had not begun in the right way to forget The pain 
which had made the pretty, lissome figure and the soft, 
round face look faintly worn, was sharper to-day than it 
had been even three months before, and it was gaining 
in sharpness every day, nay, every hour. 

“ The days are so long,” she said, plaiting the silk of 
her dress on the restless hands. * “ We are so quiet, ex- 
cept when we have visitors, and somehow visitors begin 
to tire me. I scarcely ever knew what it was to be tired 
before. I don’t care even to scatter the Philistines now,” 
trying to smile. “ I am not even roused by the prospect 
of meeting Lady Augusta to-night. I forgot to tell you 
she was coming, didn’t I ? How she would triumph if 
she knew how I have fallen and— and how miserable I 
amj She used to say I had not a thought above the cut 
of my dresses. She never knew about — him, poor fel- 
low !” 

It was a curious thing to see how she still clung to 
that tender old pitying way of speaking of Grif 

Aim^e began to cry over her again, promptly. It was 


SEVEN LONG YEARS, BELOVED. 257 

not the first time she had cried over her, and it was far 
from being the last. 

“ You must come home, Dolly,” she said. “You must, 
indeed. You will get worse and worse if you stay here. 

I will speak to Miss MacDowlas myself. You say she. 
is kind to you.” 

“ Dear little woman,” said Dolly, closing her eyes as 
she let Ijer head rest upon the girl’s shoulder. “ Dear, 
kind little woman ! indeed it will be best for me to stay 
here. It is as I said — indeed it is. If I were to go 
home I should die! Oh, don’t you k7iow how cruel it 
would be ! To sit there in my chair and see his old place 
empty — to sit and hear the people passing in the street 
and know I should never hear his footstep again — to see 
the door open again and again, and know he would never, 
never pass through. It would break my heart — it would 
break my heart !” 

“ It is broken now !” cried Aimee, in a burst of grief, 
and she could protest no more. 

But she remained as long as she well could, petting 
and talking to her. She knew better than to offer her 
threadbare commonplace comfort, so she took refuge m 
talking of life at Bloomsbury Place — about Tod and 
Mollie and ’Toinette, and the new picture Phil was at 
work upon. But it was a hard matter for her to control 
herself sufficiently to conceal that she was almost in an 
agony of anxiousness and foreboding. What was she to ^ 
do with this sadly-altered Dolly, the mainspring of whose 
bright, spirited life was gone? How was she to help her 
if she could not restore Grif — it was only Grif she 
wanted — and where was he? It was just as she had 
always said it would be — without Grif, Dolly was Dolly 

17 


258 


DOLLY, 


no longer — for Grif’s sake her faithful, passionate, girl’s 
heart was breaking slowly. 

Lady Augusta encountering her ex-governess in the 
drawing-room that evening, raised her eyeglass to that 
noble feature, her nose, and condescended a questioning 
inspection, full of disapproval of the heavy, well-falling 
black silk and the Elizabethan frill 

“ You are looking shockingly pale and thin,” she said. 

Dolly glanced at her reflection in an adjacent mirror. 
She was looking fair and shadowy-eyed, but she was not 
prompted to any comfortable little audacity by her recog- 
nition of the fact. She only smiled faintly, in silence. 

“I was not aware that you were ill,” proceeded her 
ladyship. 

“ I cannot say that I am ill,” Dolly answered. “ How 
is Phemie ?” 

” Euphemia,” announced Lady Augusta, “ is well, and, 
I trust',' as if she rather doubted her having so far over- 
come old influences of an evil nature, “ I trust improving, 
though I regret to hear from her preceptress that she is 
singularly deficient in application to her musical lessons.” 

Dolly thought of the professor with the lumpy face, 
and smiled again. Phemie’s despairing letters to herself 
sufficiently explained why her progress was so slow. 

“ I hope,” said her ladyship to Miss MacDowlas, after- 
ward, “that you are satisfied with Dorothea’s manner of 
filling her position in your household.” 

“ I never was so thoroughly satisfied in my life,” 
returned the old lady stiffly. “ She is a very quick- 
witted, pleasantly-natured girl, and I am extremely fond 
of her.” 

“ Ah,” waving a majestic and unbending fan of carved 
ivory. “ She has possibly improved then. I observe 


SEVEN LONG YEARS, BELOVED. 259 

that she is going off very much— in the matter of looks, 
I mean.” 

I heard a gentleman remark a few minutes ago,” 
replied Miss MacDowlas, “that the girl looked like a 
white rose, and I quite agreed with him— but I am fond 
of her, as I said, and you are not.” 

Her ladyship shuddered faintly, but she did not make 
any further comment, perhaps feeling that her hostess was 
too powerful to encounter. 

At midnight the visitors went their several ways, and 
after they had dispersed and the rooms were quiet once 
again, Miss MacDowlas sent her companion to bed, or, 
at least, bade her good-night. 

“ You had better go at once,” she said. “ I will remain 
to give orders to the servants. You look tired. The 
excitement has been too much for you.” 

So Dolly thanked her and left the room, but strangely 
enough Miss MacDowlas did not hear her ascend the 
stairs, and, accordingly, after listening a moment or so, 
went to the room door and looked out into the hall. And 
right at the foot of the staircase lay Dolly Crewe, the 
lustreless, trailing black dress making her skin seem 
white as marble, her pretty face turned half downward 
upon her arm.. 

Half an hour later the girl returned to consciousness 
to find herself lying comfortably in bed, the chamber 
empty save for herself and Miss MacDowlas, who was 
standing at her side watching her. 

“Better?” she said. “That is right, my dear. The 
evening was too much for you, as I was afraid it would 
be. You are not as strong as you should be.” 

“ No,” Dolly answered, quietly. 

There was a silence of a few minutes, during which 


260 


DOLLY. 


she closed her eyes again, but she heard Miss MacDow- 
las fidgetting a little, and at last she heard her speak. 

“ My dear,” she said, “ I think I ought to tell you 
something. When you fell, I suppose you must some- 
how or other have pressed the spring of your locket, for 
it was open when I went to you, and — I saw the face 
inside it.” 

“ Grif,” said Dolly, in a tired voice, “ Grif ” 

And then she remembered how she had written to him 
about what this very denouement would be when it came. 
How strange, how wearily strange it was to think that it 
should come about in such a way as this! 

“ My nephew,” said Miss MacDowlas. “ Griffith 
Donne.” 

Yes,” said Dolly, briefly. I was engaged to him.” 

*‘Was!” echoed Miss MacDowlas. “Did he behave 
badly to you, my dear?” 

“ No, I behaved badly to him — and that is why I am 
ill.” 

Miss MacDowlas blew her nose. 

How long ?” she asked, at length. ‘‘ May I ask how 
long you were engaged to each other, my dear? Don’t 
answer me if you do. not wish.” 

“I was engaged to him — ” faltered the girlish voice — 
we were all the world to each other for seven years — 
for seven long years.” 


IN WHICH WE TRY SWITZERLAND, 


261 


CHAPTER XV. 

IN WHICH WE TRY SWITZERLAND. 

I N the morning of one of the hot days in June, Mollie, 
standing at the window of Phil’s studio, turned sud- 
denly toward the inmates of the room with an exclama- 
tion. 

Phil !” she said, “’Toinette! There is a carriage 
drawing up before the door.” 

” Lady Augusta ?” said ’ Toinette, making a dart at Tod., 
“ Confound Lady Augusta !” ejaculated Phil, devoutly. 
“ That woman has a genius for presenting herself at 
inopportune times.” 

“ But it isn’t Lady Augusta,” Mollie objected. “ It 
isn’t the Bilberry carriage at all. Do you think I don’t 
know ' the ark ?’ ” 

“ You ought to by this time,” returned Phil. “ I do, 
to my own deep grief.” 

It is the Brabazon Lodge carriage !” cried Mollie, all 
at once.' “ Miss MacDowlas is getting out, and— yes, 
here is Dolly !” 

“And Tod just washed and dressed!” said Mrs. Phil, 
picking up her offspring with an air of self-congratula- 
tion. “ Miracle of miracles ! The Fates begin to smile 
upon us. Phil, how is my back haij- ?” 

“All* right,” returned Phil. “I suppose I shall have 
to present myself, too.” 


262 


DOLLY. 


It was necessary that they should all present them- 
selves, they found. Miss MacDowlas wished to form the 
acquaintance of the whole family, it appeared, and apart 
from this her visit had rather an important object. 

“ It is a sort of farewell visit,” she explained, “though, 
of course, the farewell is only to be a temporary one. 
We find London too hot for us, and we are going to try 
Switzerland. The medical man thinks a change will be 
beneficial to your sister.” 

They all looked at Dolly then — at Dolly in her delicate, 
crisp, summer bravery and her pretty summer hat, but 
it was neither hat nor dress that drew their eyes upon 
her all at once in that new questioning way. But Dolly 
only laughed — a soft, nervous laugh, however — and 
played with her much-frilled parasol. 

“ Miss MacDowlas,” she said, “is good enough to fancy 
I am not so well as I ought to be, Tod,” bending her face 
low over the pretty little fellow, who had trotted to her 
knee. “What do you think of Aunt Dolly’s appearing 
in the character of invalid? It sounds like the best of 
jokes, doesn’t it. Tod?” 

They tried to smile responsively, all of them, but the 
effort was not a success. Despite all her pretence of 
brightness and coquettish attire, there was not one of 
them who had not been startled when their first greeting 
was over. Under the triumph of a hat, her face showed 
almost sharply cut, her skin far too transparently color- 
less, her eyes much too large and bright. The elabo- 
rately-coiled braids of hair seemed almost too heavy for 
the slender throat to bear, and no profusion of trimming 
could hide that the little figure was strangely worn. The 
flush and glow and ^spirit had died away from her. It 
was not the Dolly who had been wont to pride herself 


IN’ WHICH WE TRY SWITZERLAND. 263 

upon ruling supreme in Vagabondia, who sat there before 
them making them wonder ; it was a new creature, who 
seemed quite a stranger to them. 

They were glad to see how fond of her Miss Mac- 
Dowlas appeared to be. They had naturally not had a 
very excellent opinion of Miss MacDowlas in the past 
days, but the fact that Dolly had managed to so win 
upon her as to bring out her best side, quite softened 
their hearts. She was not so grim after all. Her anti- 
pathy to Grif had evidently been her most unpleasant 
peculiarity, and now seeing her care for this new Dolly, 
who needed care so much, they were rather touched. 

When the farewells had been said, the carriage had 
driven away and they had returned to the studio, a curi- 
ous silence seemed to fall upon them, one and all. ’Toi- 
nette sat in her chair, holding Tod, without speaking; 
Mollie stood near her with a, wondering, downcast air; 
Phil went to the window, and, neglecting his picture 
wholly for the tinie being, looked out into the street, 
whistling softly. 

At length he turned round to Aim^e. 

“ Aim^e,” he said, abruptly, “ how long has this been 
going on ?” 

“ You mean this change ?” said Aimde, in a low voice. 

“ Yes.” 

“ For three months,” she answered. ” I did not like 
to tell you because I knew she would not like it — but it 
dates from the time Grif went away.” 

Mrs. Phil burst into an impetuous gush of tears, hiding 
her handsome, girlish face on Tod’s neck. 

It is a shame !” she cried out. “ It is a cruel, burn- 
ing shame! Who would ever have thought of Grif’s 
treating her like this.” 


264 


DOLLY. 


“Yes,” said Phil, “and who would ever have thought 
that Dolly would have broken down. Dolly ! By George ! 
I can’t believe it. If I am able to judge, it seems time 
that she should try Switzerland or somewhere else. 
Aimde, has she heard nothing of him ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

The young man flushed hotly. 

“Confound it!” he burst forth. “It looks as if the 
fellow was a dishonorable scamp. And yet he is the 
last man I should ever have fancied would prove a 
scamp.” 

“ But he has not proved himself a scamp yet,” said 
Aim^e, in a troubled tone. “ And Dolly would not like 
to hear you say so. And if you knew the whole truth 
you wouldyit say so. He has been tried too far, and he 
has been impetuous and rash, but it was his love for 
Dolly that made him so. And wherever he may be, Phil, 
I know he is as wretched and hopeless as Dolly herself, 
could be at the worst. It has all been misunderstanding 
and mischance.” 

“ He has broken Dolly’s heart, nevertheless,” cried 
Mrs. Phil. “ And if she dies ” 

“ Dies 1” cried out Mollie, opening her great eyes and 
turning pale all at once. “ Dies I Dolly?” 

“ Hush I” said Aim6e, trembling and losing color her- 
self “ Oh, hush ! — don’t say such things. It sounds so 
dreadful — it is too dreadful to think of!” 


And so it came about that on another of these hot 
June days, there appeared at the table d’hdte of a certain 
well-conducted and already well-filled inn at Lake Ge- 
neva two new arrivals — a tall, thin, elderly lady of ex- 
cessively English exterior, and a young person, who 


m WHICH WE TRY SWITZERLAND. 


265 


attracted some attention — a girl who wore a long, black 
dress, and had a picturesque Elizabethan frill about her 
fair, too-slender throat, and who, in spite of her manner 
and the clearness of her bright voice, was a thought too 
wdiitely transparent of complexion and too finely cut of 
face to look as strong as a girl of one or two and twenty 
ought to be. 

The people who took stock of them, after the manner 
of all unoccupied hotel sojourners on the lookout for 
sensations, noticed this. One or two of them even ob- 
served that on entering the room after the slight exer- 
tion of descending the staircase, the girl was slightly 
out of breath and seemed glad to sit down, and that her 
companion evidently making some remark upon the fact, 
she half laughed, as if wishing to make light of it, and 
they noticed, too, that her naturally small hands were 
so very slender that her one simple little ring of amethyst 
and pearls slipped loosely up and down her finger. 

They were not ordinary tourists, these new arrivals, it 
was clear. Their attire told that at once. They had 
removed their travelling dresses, and looked as if they 
had quite made up their minds to enjoying their cus- 
tomary mode of life as if they had been at home. They 
had no courier, the wiseacres had ascertained, and they 
had brought a neat English serving-woman, who seemed 
to know her business marvellously well and be by no 
means unaccustomed to travelling. 

“Aunt and niece !” commented one gentleman, survey- 
ing Dolly over his soup. “A nice little creature — the 
niece." And he mentally resolved to cultivate her* 
acquaintance. But it was not such an easy matter. 
The new arrivals were unlike ordinary tourists in other 
respects than in their settled mode of life. They did 


266 


DOLLY. 


not seem to care to form chance acquaintance with their 
fellow guests. They lived quietly and, unless when 
driving out together or taking short, unfatiguing strolls, 
remained much in their own apartments. They appeared 
at the table d'hbte occasionally, but though' they were 
pleasant in manner they were not communicative, and 
so, after a week or so, people tired of asking questions 
about them, and lapsed into merely exchanging greet- 
ings, and looking on with some interest at any changes 
they observed in the pretty, transparent, though always 
bright face, and the pliant, soft, young figure. 

Thus Miss MacDowlas and her companion “tried 
Switzerland.” 

“ It will do you good, my dear, and brace you up,” 
the elder lady had said, and from the bottom of her 
heart she had hoped it would. 

And did it? 

Well, the last time Dolly had “tried Switzerland,” she 
had tried it in the capacity of Lady Augusta’s governess, 
and she had held in charge a host of rampant young 
Bilberrys, who secretly loathed their daily duties, and 
were not remarkable in the matter of filial piety, and 
were only reconciled to existence by the presence of 
their maternal parent’s greatest trial, that highly objec- 
tionable Dorothea Crewe: So, taking Lady Augusta in 
conjunction with her young charges, the girl had often' 
felt her lot by no means the easiest in the world ; but 
youth and spirit, and those oft-arriving letters, had helped 
her to bear a great deal, and so there was still something 
sweet about the memory. Oh, those old letters — those 
foolish, passionate, tender letters — written in the dusty, 
hot London office, read with such happiness, and an- 
swered on such closely-penned sheets of foreign paper ! 


IJSr WHICH WE TRY SWITZERLAND, 267 

How she had used to watch for them, and carry them to 
her small bedroom and read them again and again, 
kneeling on the floor by the open window, the fres.h, soft 
summer breezes from the blue lake far below stirring her 
hair and kissing her forehead ! How doubly and trebly 
fair she had been wont to fancy everything looked on 
that “ letter day ” of hers — that red-letter day — that 
golden-letter day ! 

The very letters she had written then lay in her trunk 
now, tied together in a bundle, just as Grif had brought 
them and laid them down upon tile table when he gave 
her up. forever. Her “ dead letter ” lay with them — that 
last, last appeal, which had never reached his heart, and 
never would. She had written her last letter to him, and 
he his last to her. And now she had been brought to 
“try Switzerland,” and Lake Geneva as a Lethe. 

But she had determined to be practical and courageous, 
and bear it as best she might. It would not have been 
like her to give way at once without a struggle. She 
did not believe in love-lorn damsels, who pined away and 
died of broken hearts, and made all their friends uncom- 
fortable by so doing. She made a struggle, and refused 
to give up. She grew prettily shadowy and fair, but it 
was under protest, and she battled against the change 
she felt creeping upon her so slowly but so surely. She 
showed a brave face to people, and tried to be as* bright 
and ready-witted as ever, and if she failed it was not her 
own fault. She fought hard against her sleepless nights 
and weary days; and when she lay awake hour after 
hour hearing the clock strike, it was not because she 
made no effort to compose herself, it was only because 
the delicate wheels of thought would work against her 
helpless will, and it was worse than useless to close her 


268 


DOLLY. 


eyes when she could see so plainly her lost lover’s des- 
perate, anguished face, and hear so distinctly his strained, 
strangely-altered voice : “ No, it is too late for that now 
— that is all over !” And he had once loved her better 
than his life ! 

So it was that, try as she might, -she could not make 
Switzerland a success. When she went down to the 
table d'hote^ people saw that instead of growing stronger 
she was growing more frail, and the exertion of coming 
down the long flight of stairs tried her more than it had 
seemed to do that fir^t day. Sometimes she had a soft, 
lovely, dangerous color on her cheeks, and hpr eyes 
looked almost translucent ; and then again the color was 
gone, her skin was white and transparent, and her eyes 
were shadowy and languid. When the hot July days came 
in, the ring of pearls and amethyst would stay on the 
small worn hand no longer, and so was taken off and hung 
with the little bunch of coquettish “charms” upon her 
chain. But she was not conquered yet, and the guests and 
servants often heard her laughing, and making Miss Mac- 
Dowlas laugh as they sat together in their private parlor. 

The two were sitting thus together one Saturday early 
in July — Dolly m a loose white wrapper, resting in a low 
basket chair by the open window, and fanning herself 
languidly — when a visitor was announced, and the 
moment after the announcement a tall young lady 
rushed into the room and clasped Dolly unceremoni- 
ously in her arms, either not observing or totally ignor- 
ing Miss MacDowlas’s presence. 

“ Dolly !” she cried, kneeling down by the basket 
chair and speaking so fast that her words tumbled over 
each other, and her sentences were curiously mingled. 
“ Oh ! if you please, dear, I know it wasn’t polite, and I 


m WHICH WE THY SWITZERLAND, 


269 


never meant to do it in such an unexpected, awfully rude 
way ; and what mamma would say, I am sure I cannot 
tell, unless go into dignified convulsions, and shudder 
herself stiff; but how could I help it, when I came ex- 
pecting to see you as bright and lovely as ever, and 
caught a glimpse of you through the door as the servant 
spoke sitting here so white and thin and tired-looking ! 
Oh, dear! oh dear! how ever can it be!” 

My dear Phemie !” said Dolly, laughing and crying 
both at once, through weakness and sympathy — for of 
course poor easily-moved Phemie had burst into a flood 
of affectionate tears. “ My dear child, how excited you 
are, and how pleasant it is to see you ! How did you 
manage to come ?” 

“ The professor with the lumpy face- — poor, pale darling 
— I mean you, not him,” explained the eldest Miss Bil- 
berry, clinging to her ex-governess as if she was afraid 
of seeing her float through the open window. “ The pro- 
fessor with the lumpy face, Dolly; which shows he is 
not so horrid as I always thought him, and I am very 
sorry for being so inconsiderate, I am sure — you know he 
cannot help his lumps any more than I can help my 
dreadful red hands and my dresses not fitting.” 

Dolly stopped her here to introduce her to Miss Mac- 
Dowlas, and that lady having welcomed her good-na- 
turedly, and received her incoherent apologies for her 
impetuous lack of decorum, the explanation proceeded. 

‘‘ How could the professor send you here ?” asked 
Dolly. 

“ He did not exactly send me, but he helped me,” 
replied the luckless Euphemia, becoming a trifle more 
coherent. “ I saw you at the little church, though you 
did not see me,' because, of course, we sit in the most 


270 


DOLLY, 


disagreeable part, just where we can’t see or be seen at 
all. And though I only saw you at a distance, and 
through your veil, and half behind a pillar, I knew you, 
and knew Miss MacDowlas. I think I knew Miss Mac- 
Dowlas most because she wasn’t behind the pillar. And 
it nearly drove me crazy to think you were so near, and 
I gave one of the servants some money to find out where 
you were staying, and she brought me word that you 
were staying here, and meant to. stay. And then I asked 
the lady principal to let me come and see you, and of 
course she refused ; and I never should have been able 
to come at all* only it chanced that was my music-lesson 
day, and I went in to the professor with red eyes — I had 
cried so — and when he asked me what I had been crying 
for, I remembered that he used to be fond of you, and I 
told .him. And he was sorry for me, and promised to 
ask leave for me. He is a cousin of the lady principal, 
and a great favorite with her. And the end of it was 
that they let me come. And I have almost flown. I 
had to wait until to-day, you know, because it was Sat- 
urday.” 

It was quite touching to see how, when .she stopped 
speaking, she clung to Dolly’s hands, and looked at her 
with wonder and grief in her face. 

“What is it that has changed you so?” she said. 
“You are not like yourself at all. Oh, my dear, how ill 
you are!” 

A curious, wistful shadow .showed itself in the girl’s 
eyes. 

I so much changed ?” she asked. 

“You do not. look like our Dolly at all,” protested 
Phemie. “You are thin — oh, so thin I What is the 
matter ?” 


m WHICH WE TRY SWITZERLAND. ' 271 

“Thin!” said Dolly. “Am I? Then I must be grow- 
ing ugly enough. Perhaps it is to punish me for being 
so vain about my figure. Don’t you remember what a 
dread I always had of growing thin ? Just to think that 
I should grow thin, after all I Do my bones stick out 
like the Honorable Cecilia Howland’s, Phemie ?” And 
she ended with a queer little laugh. 

Phemie kissed her, in affectionate protest against such 
an idea. 

“Oh, dear, no!” she said. “They couldn’t, you 
know. They are not the kind of bones to do it. Just 
think of her dreadful elbows and her fearful shoulder- 
blades ! You couldn’t look like her. I don’t mean 
that sort of thinness at all. But you seem so light and 
so little. And look here,” and she held up the pain- 
fully-small hand, the poor little hand without the ring. 
“ There are no dimples here now, Dolly,” she said, sor- 
rowfully. 

“ No,” answered Dolly, simply, and the next minute, 
as she drew her hand away, there fluttered from her lips 
a sigh. 

She managed to change the turn of conversation after 
this. Miss MacDowlas had good-naturedly left them 
alone, and so she began to ask Phemie questions. Ques- 
tions about school and lessons and companions, about 
the lady principal and the under-teachers and about the 
professor with the lumpy face, and, despite appearances 
being againsj her, there was still the old ring in her girl’s 
jests. 

“ Has madame got a new bonnet yet,” she asked, “or 
does she still wear the old one with those aggressive- 
looking spikes of wheat in it ? The lean ears ought to 
have eaten up the fat ones by this time.” 


9 


272 - 


DOLLY. 


“ But they haven’t,” returned Phemie. “ They are 
there yet, Dolly. Just the same spikes in the same bon- 
net, only she has had new saffron-colored ribbon put on 
it, just the shade of her skin.” 

Dolly shuddered — Lady Augusta’s own semi-tragic 
shudder, if Phemie had only recognised it. 

“ Phemie,” she said, with a touch of pardonable anx- 
iety, “ ill as I look, I am not that color, am I ? To lose 
one’s figure and grow thin, is bad enough, but to become 
like Madame Pillet — dear me !” shaking her head. 

I scarcely think I could reconcile myself to exist- 
ence,” Phemie laughed. “You are not changed in one 
respect, Dolly,” she said. “ When I hear you talk it 
makes me feel quite — quite safe.” 

“Safe!” Dolly echoed. “You mean to say that so 
long as I preserve my constitutional vanity, your anxiety 
won’t overpower you. But — but,” looking at her curi- 
ously, “ did you think at first that I was not safe, as you 
call it ?” 

“You looked so ill,” faltered Phemie. “And — I was 
so startled.” 

“ Were you ?” asked Dolly. “Did I shock you ?” 

“A little — only just a little, dear,” deprecatingly. 

Then strangely enough fell upon them a silence. 
Dolly turned toward the window and her eyes seemed 
to fix themselves upon some far-away point, as if she was 
pondering over a new train of thought. And when at 
last she spoke, her voice was touched with tjie tremulous 
unsteadiness of tears. 

“ Do you think,” she said, slowly, “ do you think that 
a7ty 07ie who had loved me would be shocked to see me 
now ? Am I so much altered as that ? One scarcely 


I 


IN WHICH WE TRY SWITZERLAND, 273 

sees these things one’s self— they come to pass so grad- 
ually.” 

All poor Phemie’s smiles died away. 

“ Don’t let us talk about it,” she pleaded. “ I cannot 
bear to hear you speak so. Don’t, dear — if you please, 
don’t!” 

Her pain was so evident that it roused Dolly at once. 

“ I won’t, if it troubles you,” she said, almost in her 
natural manner. “It does not matter — why should it? 
There is no one here to be shocked. I was only won- 
dering.” 

But the shadow did not quite leave her face, and even 
when, an hour later, Euphemia bade her good-by and 
left her, promising to return again as soon as possible, it 
was there still. 

She was very, very quiet for a few minutes after she 
found herself alone. She clasped her hands behind her 
head and lay back in the light chair, looking out of the 
window. She .was thinking so deeply that she did not 
even stir for a while, but in the end she got up, as though 
moved by some impulse, and crossed the room. 

Against the wall hung a long, narrow mirror, and she 
went to this mirror and stood before it, looking at her- 
self from head to foot — at her piteously-sharpened face, 
with its large, wondering eyes, eyes that wondered at 
themselves — at the small, light figure so painfully ethe- ' 
realized, and about which the white wrapper hung so 
loosely. She even held up, at last, the slender hand and 
arm, but when she saw these uplifted, appealing, as it 
were, for this sad, new face which did not seem her own, 
she broke into a little cry of pain and grief 

“ If you could see me now,” she said, “ if you should 
come here by chance and see me now, my dear, I think 
18 


274 


DOLLY. 


you would not wait to ask whether I had been true or 
false. I never laid this white cheek on your shoulder, 
did I ? Oh, what a changed face it is ! I know I was 
never very pretty, though you thought so and were proud 
of me in your tender way, but I was not like this in those 
dear old days, Grif, Grif, would you know me — would 
you know me?” And turning to her chair again, she 
dropped upon her knees before it, and knelt there sob- 
bing. 


IF YOU SHOULD DIE. 


275 


CHAPTER XVI. 

IF YOU SHOULD DIE. 

T he postman paid frequent visits to Bloomsbury 
Place during these summer weeks. At first Dolly 
wrote often herself, but later it seemed to fall to Miss 
MacDowlas to answer Aimee’s weekly letters and Mollie’s 
fortnfghtly ones. And that lady was a faithful corres- 
pondent, and did her duty as readily as was possible, 
giving all the news, and recording all Dolly’s messages, 
and issuing regular bulletins on the subject of her health. 
“Your sister,” she sometimes wrote, “ is not so well, and 
I have persuaded her to allow me to be her amanuensis.” 
Or, “ Your sister is tired after a rather long drive, and I 
have persuaded her to rest while I write at her dicta- 
tion.” Or sometimes, “ Dolly is rather stronger, and is 
in excellent spirits, but I do not wish her to exert her- 
self at present.” But at length a new element crept into 
these letters! The cheerful tone gave way to a more 
, dubious one ; Dolly’s whimsical messages were fewer 
and farther between, and sometimes Miss MacDowlas 
seemed to be on the verge of hinting that her condition 
was a weaker and more precarious one than even she 
herself had at first feared. 

Ralph Gowan, on making his friendly calls, and hear- 
ing this, was both anxious and puzzled. In a very short 
time after his return he had awakened to a recognition 


276 


DOLLY, 


of some mysterious shadow upon the household. Vaga- 
bondia had lost its spirits. Mrs. Phil and her husband 
were almost thoughtful ; Tod disported himself unre- 
garded and unadmired, comparatively speaking; Mollie 
seemed half frightened by the aspect affairs were wear- 
ing; and Aimde’s small, wise, round face had actually 
an older look. And then these letters! Dolly “trying 
Switzerland” for her health, Dolly mysteriously ill and 
far away from home — too weak sometimes to write. 
Dolly, who had never seemed to have a weakness ; who 
had entered the lists against even Lady Augusta, and 
had come off victorious ; who had been mock-worldly, 
and coquettish, and daring; who had made open on- 
slaught upon eligible Philistines ; who had angled pret- 
tily and with sinful success for ineligible Bohemians! 
What did it mean ? And where was Donne? Certainly 
he was never to be seen at Bloomsbury Place or in its 
vicinity in these days. 

But deeply interested as he was, Gowan was not the 
man to ask questions, so he could only wait until chance 
brought the truth to light. 

He came to the house upon one occasion and found 
Aimee crying quietly over one of Miss MacDowlas’s let- 
ters in the parlor, and in his sympathy he felt compelled 
to speak openly to her. 

Then Aimde, heavy of heart and full of despairing 
grief, handed him the letter to read. 

“ I have known it w'ould be so — from the first,” she 
sobbed. “ We are going to lose her. Perhaps she will 
not live to come home again.” 

“You mean Dolly ?” he said. 

“Yes,” hysterically. “Miss MacDowlas says ” 

But she could get no further. 


IF YOU SHOULD DIE. 


277 


This was what Miss MacDowlas said : 

“ I cannot think it would be right to hide from you 
that your sister is very ill, though she does not com- 
plain, and persists in treating her increasing v/eakness 
lightly. Indeed, I am sure that she herself does not 
comprehend her danger. I am inclined to believe that 
it has not yet occurred to her that she is in danger at all. 
She protests that she'cannot be ill so long as she does 
not suffer ; but I, who have watched her day by day, can 
see only too plainly where the danger lies. And so I 
think it best to warn you to be prepared to come to us 
at once if at any time I should send for you hurriedly.” 

“ Prepared to go to them !” commented Aim^e. “ What 
does that mean ?” What can it mean but that our own 
Dolly^ is dying, and may slip out of the world away from 
us at any moment? Oh, Grifl Grif! what have you 
done ?” 

Gowan closed the letter. 

“ Miss Aimde,” he said, “where is Donne?” 

Aimee fairly wrung her hands. 

“ I don’t know,” she quite wailed. “ If I only did — if 
I only knew where I could find him!” 

“You don’t. know!” exclaimed Gowan. “And Dolly 
dying in Switzerland !” 

“ That is it,” she returned. “ That is what it all means. 
If any of us knew — or if Dolly knew, she would not be 
dying in Switzerland. It is because she does not know, 
that she is dying. She has never seen him since the night 
you brought Mollie home. And — and she cannot live 
without him.” 

The whole story was told in very few words after this, 
and Gowan, listening, began to understand what the cloud 
upon the house had meant. He suffered some sharp 


f 


278 


DOLLY. 


enough pangs through the discovery, too. The last frail 
cords that had bound him to hope snapped as Aimde 
poured out her sorrows. He had never been very san- 
guine of success, but even after hoping against hope, his 
tender fancy for Dolly Crewe had died a very lingering 
death ; indeed, it was not quite dead yet, but he w'as 
beginning to comprehend this old love story more fully, 
and he had found himself forced to do his rival greater 
justice. He could not see his virtues as the rest saw 
them, of course, but he was generous enough to pity 
him, and see that his lot had been a terribly hard one. 

“ There is only one thing to be done,” he said, when 
Aim^e had finished speaking. “ We must find him.” 

“ Find him! We cannot find him.” 

That remains to be proved,” he answered. “ Have 
you been to his lodgings ?” 

“ Yes,” mournfully. “And even to the office ! He left 
his lodgings that very night, paid his bills, and drove 
away in a cab with his trunk. Poor Grif! It wasn’t a 
very big trunk. He went to the office the next morning 
and told Mr. Flynn he was going to leave London, and 
one of the clerks told Phil there was a ‘row’ between 
them. Mr. Flynn was angry because he had not given 
due notice of his intention. That is all we know,” 

“And you have not the slightest clue beyond this ?” 

“ Not the slightest. He spent all his spare time with 
Dolly, you know, so there is not even any place of resort, 
or club or anything, where we might go to make inqui- 
ries about him.” 

Gowan’s countenance fell. He felt the girl’s distress 
keenly, apart from his own pain. 

“The whole affair seems very much against us,” he 
said; “ but he may — I say he may be in London still. I 


IF YOU SHOULD DIE. 


279 


am inclined to believe he is myself. When the first pas- 
sion of excitement was over, he would find himself weaker 
than he fancied he was. It would not be so easy to cut 
himself off from the old life altogether. He would long 
so inexpressibly to see Dolly again that he could not 
tear himself away. I think we may be assured that even 
if he is not in London, at least he has not left England.” 

“ That was what I have been afraid of,” said Airnde ; 
“ that he might have left England altogether.” 

“I cannot think he has,” Gowan ;returned. 

They were both silent for a moment. Aimde sat twist- 
ing Miss MacDowlas’s letter in her fingers, fresh tears 
gathering in her eyes. 

It is all the harder to bear,” she said next, “ because 
Dolly has always seemed so much of a reality to us. If 
she had been a pale, ethereal sort of girl, it might not 
seem such a shock ; but she never was. She even used 
to say she could not bear those frail, ethereal people in 
books, who were always dying and saying touching 
things just at the proper time, and who knew exactly 
when to call up their agonized friends to their bedside to 
see how pathetically and decorously they made their exit. 
Oh, my poor darling ! To think that she should be 
fading away’ and dying just in the same way! I cannot 
make it seem real. I cannot think of her without her 
color, and her jokes, and her bits of acting, and her little 
vanities. She will not be our Dolly at all if they have 
left her. There is a dress of hers up-stairs now — a dress 
she couldn’t bear. And I remember so well how she 
lost her temper when she was making it, because it 
wouldn’t fit. And when I went into the parlor she was 
crying over it, and Grif was trying so hard to console 
her that at last she laughed. I can see her now, with the 


280 


DOLLY. 


tears in her eyes, looking half-vexed and half-comforted. 
And Tod, too — how fond she was of Tod, and how proud 
of liim ! Ah, Tod!’' in a fresh burst, “when you grow 
up, the daisies may have been growing for many a year 
' over poor little Aunt Dolly, and you will have forgotten 
her quite.” 

“You must not look at the matter in that desponding 
way,” said Gowan, quite unsteadily. “ We must hope for 
the best, and do what we can. You may rely upon me 
to exert myself to the utmost. If we- succeed in finding 
Donne I am sure that he will do the rest. Perhaps, next 
summer Vagabondia will be as bright as ever — nay, even 
brighter than it has been before.” 

All his sympathies were enlisted, and hopeless as the 
task seemed, he had determined to make strenuous efforts 
to trace this -lost lover. Men had concealed themselves 
from their friends, in the world of London, often before, 
and this, he felt sure, Griffith Donne was doing, and since 
this poor, little, impassioned, much-tried Dolly was dying 
in spite of herself, for Griffith Donne’s sake, and seemed 
only to be saved by his presence, he must even set him- 
self the task of bringing him to light and clearing up 
this miserable misunderstanding. Having been Dolly 
Crewe’s lover, he was still generous enough to wish to 
prove himself her friend. Yes, and even her luckier 
lover’s friend, though he winced a trifle at the thought. 
Accordingly, he left the house that night with his mind 
full of half-formed plans, both feasible and otherwise. 

During the remainder of that week he did not call at 
Bloomsbury Place again, but at the beginning of the next: 
he made his appearance, bringing with him a piece of 
news which excited Aimde terribly. 

“ I know I shall startle you,” he said, the moment they 


TF YOU SHOULD DIE. 


281 


were alone together, “ but you can scarcely be more star- 
tled than I was myself. I have been on the lookout con- 
stantly, but I did not expect to be rewarded by success 
so soon. Indeed, as it is, it has been entirely a matter of 
chance. It is as I felt sure it would be. Donne is in 
London still. I know that much, though that is all I 
have learned as yet. Late last night I caught a glimpse 
— only a glimpse — of him hurrying through a by-street. 
I almost fancied he had seen me and was determined to 
get out of the way.” 


“ The pretty English girl,” said the guests at the inn, 
“ comes down no longer to the 

“ The pretty English girl,” remarked the wiseacres, 
“ does not even drive out on these days, and the doctor 
calls every morning to see her.” 

“And sometimes,” added one of the wisest, “again in 
the evening.” 

“ Consumption,” observed another. 

“ Plainly consumption,” nodding significantly. “ These 
English frauleins are so often consumptive,” commented 
a third. “ It is astonishing to remark how many come 
to ‘ try Switzerland,’ as they say.” 

.“And die?” V 

“And die — as this one will.’* 

“ Poor little thing !” with a sigh and a pitying shrug 
of the shoulders. 

And in the meantime up-stairs the basket-chair had 
been taken away from the window and a luxuriousLy-cool, 
large-cushioned, chintz-covered couch had been pushed 
into its place, and Dolly lay upon it. But luxurious as 
her couch was and balmy as the air was, coming through 
the widely-opened window, she did not find much rest. 


282 


DOLLY. 


The fact was, she was past rest by this time, she was too 
weak to rest. The hot days tried her and her sleepless 
nights undermined even her last feeble relic of strength. 
Sometimes during the day she felt that she could not lie 
propped up on her pillows a moment longer, but when 
she tried to stand or sit up she was glad to drop back 
again into the old place. She lost her breath fearfully 
soon — the least exertion left her panting. 

“ If I had a cough,” she said once to Miss MacDowlas, 
“ I could understand that I was ill — or if I suffered any 
actual pain, but I don’t, and even the doctor admits that 
my lungs are safe enough. What is it that he says about 
me? Let me see. Ah, this is it : that I am ‘below par — 
fearfully belo,w par,’ as if I was gold or notes or bonds or 
something. My ideas on the subject of the money mar- 
ket are indefinite, you see. . Ah, well ; I wonder when I 
shall be ‘ above par !’. ” 

She never spoke of her ailments in an}^ other strain. 
Even as she lay on her couch, too prostrate to either read 
or work, she made audacious satirical speeches and told 
Miss MacDowlas stories of Vagabondia, just as she used 
to tell them to Grif himself, only that in these days she 
could not get up to flourish illustratively, and often after 
lying for an hour or so in a dead, heavy, exhausting day- 
sleep, she opened her eyes at last, to jest about her faith- 
ful discharge of her duties as companion. Only she 
herself knew of the fierce battles she so often fought in 
secret, when her sore, aching heart cried out so loud for 
Grif and would not — would not be comforted. 

She saw Phemie frequently. The much-abused pro- 
fessor had proved himself a faithful friend to them. He 
had never been quite able to forget the little English 
governess, who had so won upon him in the past, even 


IF YOU SHOULD DIE. 


283 


though this same young lady, in her anxiety to set Lady 
Augusta at defiance, had treated him somewhat cavalierly. 
Indeed, hearing that she was ill, he was so touched as to 
be quite overwhelmed with grief. He gained Euphemia 
frequent leaves of absence, and sent messages of condo- 
lence and bouquets — huge bunches of flowers that made 
Dolly laugh even while they pleased her. There was 
always a bouquet, stiff in form and gigantic in propor- 
tions, when Phemie came. 

At first Phemie caught the contagion of Dolly’s own 
spirit and hppefulness, and was sustained by it in spite of 
appearances, but its influence died out at the end of a 
few weeks, and even she was not to be deceived. An 
awful fear began to force itself upon her — a fear doubly 
awful to poor, susceptible Phemie. Dolly was getting no 
better; she was, even getting worse every day; she could 
not sit up ; she was thinner and larger-eyed than ever. 
Was something going to happen ? And at the mere 
thought of that possible something she would lose her 
breath and sit looking at Dolly, silent, wondering and 
awe-stricken. She began to ponder over this something, 
as she tried to learn her lessons ; she thought of it as she 
vrent to bed and she dreamed of it in the night Some- 
times when she came in unexpectedly and found Dolly in 
one of those prostrate sleeps, she was so frightened that 
she could have cried out aloud. 

She came in so one evening at twilight — the professor 
had brought her himself and had promised to escort her 
home — and she found Dolly in one of these sleeps. So, 
treading lightly, she put the bouquet in water, and then 
drew a low chair to the girl’s side and sat down to watch 
and wait until she should awaken. Miss MacDowlas was 
in her own room writing to Aimee, so the place seemed 




284 


DOLLY. 


very quiet, and it was its quietness, perhaps, which so 
stirred Phemie to sorrowful thoughts and fear. ^ 

Upon her brightly-flowered chintz cushions Dolly lay 
like the very shadow of her former self The once soft, 
round outlines of her face had grown clear and sharp-cut, 
the delicate chin had lost its dimple, the delicate, trans- 
parent skin upon the temples showed a tracery of blue 
veins, the closed eyelids had a strange whiteness and lay 
upon her eyes heavily — too heavily. She did not move — 
she seemed scarcely to breathe. Phemie caught her own 
breath and held it, lest it should break from her in a sob 
of grief and terror. 

This something awful zvas going to happen ! She 
could not recover herself even when Dolly wakened and 
began to talk to her. She could not think of anything 
but her own anguish and pity for her friend. She could 
not talk and was so silent, indeed, that Dolly became 
silent, too, and so, as the dusk fell upon them, they sat 
together in a novel quiet, listening to a band of strolling 
musicians, who were playing somewhere in the distance, 
and the sound of whose instruments floated to them, 
softened and made plaintive by the evening air. 

At last Dolly broke the silence. 

“You are very quiet, Phemie,” she said. “Are you 
going to sleep ?” 

“ No,” faltered Phemie, drawing closer to her. “ I am 
thinking.” 

“Thinking. What about?” 

“ About you. Dolly, do you — are you very ill — worse 
than you were ?” 

“ Very ill !” repeated Dolly, slowly, as if in wonder. 
“ Worse than I was ! Why do you ask ?” 


IF YOU SHOULD DIE. 


285 


Then Phemie lost selfrcontrol altogether. She left her 
seat and fell down by the couch, bursting into tears. 

“ You are so altered,” she said ; “ and you alter so 
much every week. I cried over your poor, thin little 
hands when first I came to see you, but now your wrist 
looks as if it would snap in two. Oh, Dolly, darling, if 
— if you should die!” 

Was it quite a new thought, or was it because it had 
never come home to her in such a form before, this 
thought of Death ? She started as if she had been 
stung. 

If I should die!” she echoed. 

“ Phemie, my dear,” said Miss MacDowlas, opening 
the door, “ the professor is waiting down-stairs.” 

And so, having let her sorrow get the better of her,' 
Phemie had no time to stay to see if her indiscretion 
had done harm. If she did not go now, she might not 
be allowed fresh grace ; and so she was fain to tear her- 
self away. 

“ I oughtn’t to have said it !” she bewailed, as she 
kissed Dolly again and again. “Please forget it; oh, do, 
please, forget it ! I did not mean it, indeed ! And, now 
I shall be so frightened and unhappy !” 

“Phemie,” said Dolly, quietly, “you have not fright- 
ened me; so you haven’t the least need to trouble your- 
self, my dear !” 

But she was not exactly sorry to be left alone, and 
when she was alone her thoughts wandered back to that 
first evening Phemie had called — the evening she had 
gone to the glass to look at her changed face. She had 
sat in the basket-chair then — she lay back upon her 
cushions now, and a crowd of new thoughts came troop- 
ing through her mind. The soft air was scented and 


286 


DOLLY, 


balmy, the twilight sky was a dome of purple, jewel- 
hung, people’s voices came murmuring from the gardens 
below, the far-off music floated to her through the win- 
dow. 

“ If I should dief' she said, in a wondering whisper. 
“ I, Dolly Crewe ! How strange it sounds ! Have I 
never thought that I could die before, or is it strange 
because now it is so real and near? When I used to 
talk about death to Grif, it always seemed so far away 
from both of us — it seemed to me as if I was not good 
enough or unreal enough to be near to Death — great, 
solemn Death itself. Why, I could look at myself, and 
wonder at the thought of how much I shall see and 
know if I should die. Grif, how much I should have to 
tell you, dear — only that people are always afraid of 
spirits, and perhaps you would be afraid, too — even of 
me ! What would they say at home ? Dear, old, broken- 
hearted fellow, what would you say, if I should die ?” 

She could not help thinking about those at home; 
about Aimde and Mollie and Phil and ’Toinette, sitting 
together in the dear, old, littered room at Bloomsbury 
Place — the dear old untidy room, where she had sat with 
Grif so often ! How would they all bear it when the 
letter came to tell them she was gone, and would never 
be with them and share their ’pleasures and troubles 
again ! And then, strangely enough, she began to picture 
herself as she would look ; perhaps, laid out in this very 
room, a dimly-outlined figure, under a white sheet — not 
her old self, but a solemn, wondrous marble form, before 
whose motionless, mysterious presence they would feel 
awed. 

“ And they would turn down the white covering and 
look at me,” she found herself saying. “And they would 


1 


IF YOU SHOULD DIE. 


287 


wonder at me, and feel that I was far away. Oh, how 
they would wonder at me ! And, at the very last, before 
they hid my face for ever under the coffin-lid, they would 
all kiss me in that tender, solemn way — all but Grif, who 
loved me best; and Grif would not be there!” 

And the piteous rain of heavy tears that rolled down 
her cheeks, and fell upon her pillow, was not for herself — 
not for her own pain and weariness and anguish — not for 
the white, worn face, that would be shut beneath the 
coffin-lid, but for Grif — for Grif — for Grif, who, coming 
Sack some day, to learn the truth, might hear that she 
had died ! 


288 


DOLLY, 


CHAPTER XVII. 

DO YOU KNOW THAT SHE IS DYING? 

I T had come at last — the letter from Geneva, for which 
they all had waited with such anxious hearts and so 
much of dread. The postman, bringing it by the morn- 
ing’s delivery, and handing it through the opened door 
to Aimee, had wondered a little at her excited manner — 
she was always excited when these letters came; and the 
moment she had entered the parlor, holding the hur- 
riedly-read note — it was scarcely more than a note — 
there was not one of them who did not understand all 
before she spoke. 

Mrs. Phil burst into tears, Phil himself laid down his 
brush and changed color ; Mollie silently clung to Tod ak 
a refuge, and looked up with trembling lips. 

Mrs. Phil was the first to speak. 

‘‘ You may as well tell us the worst,” she said ; “but it 
is easy enough to guess what it is, without being told.” 

“ It is almost the very worst,” answered Aimde. “ Miss 
MacDowlas wants me to go to them at once. She is so 
ill that if a change does not take place, she will not live 
many weeks, and she has asked for me.” 

They all knew only too well that “she” meant Dolly. 
“Then,” said Phil, “you must go at once.” 

“ I can go to-day,” she answered. “ I tnew it would 
come to this, and I am ready to leave London at any 
moment.” 


DO YOU KNOW THAT SHE IS DYING? 289 

There was no delay. Her small box was even then 
ready packed and corded for the journey. She had taken 
Miss MacDowlas’s warning in time. It would not have 
been like this heavy-hearted wise one to disregard it. 
She would have been ready to go to Dolly at ten min- 
utes’ notice, if she had been in India. She was not 
afraid, either, of making the journey alone. It was not 
a very terrible journey, she said. Secretly, she had a 
fancy that perhaps Dolly would like to see her by her- 
self first, to have a few quiet days alone with her, in 
which she could become used to the idea of the farewell 
the rest would come to say. And in her mind the poor 
little oracle had another fancy, too, and this fancy she 
confided to Mollie before bidding her good-by. 

“ Mollie,” she said, “ I am going to leave a charge in 
your hands.” 

“ Is it anything about Dolly ?” asked Mollie, making 
fruitless efforts to check her affectionate tears. “ I wish 
you would leave me something to do for Dolly, Aimde.” 

“ It is something connected with Dolly,” returned 
Aimde. “ I want you to keep constantly on the watch 
for Griffith.” 

“ For Griffith !” Mollie exclaimed. “ How can I, when 
I don’t know whether he is in England or not ?” 

“ He is in England,” Aim^e replied. He is in Lon- 
don, for Mr. Gowan has seen him.” 

“ In London — and Dolly in Switzerland, perhaps 
dying!” 

“ He does not know that, or he would have been with 
her before now,” said Aimde. “ Once let him know that 
she is ill, and he will be with her. I know him well 
enough to be sure of that. And it is my impression that 
if he went to her at the eleventh hour, when she might 
19 


290 


DOLLY. 


seem to us to be at the very last, he would bring her 
back to life. It is Grif she is dying for, and only Grif 
can save her.” 

‘‘And what do you want me to do?” anxiously. 

“ To watch for him constantly, as I said. Don’t yoti 
think, Mollie, that he might come back, if it were only 
into the street to look at the house, in a restless sort of 
remembrance of the time when they used to be so 
happy?” 

” It would not be unlike him,” answered Mollie, slowly. 

“He was very fond of Dolly. Oh, he was very fond 
of her!” 

“ Fond of her! He loved her better than his life, and 
does still, wherever he may be. Something tells me he 
will come, and that is why I want you to watch. Watch 
at the window as constantly as you can, but more par- 
ticularly at dusk ; and if you should see him, Mollie, 
don’t wait a second. Run out to him, and make him 
listen to you. Ah, poor fellow, he will listen eagerly 
and penitently enough, if you only say to him that Dolly 
is dying.” 

“Very well,” said Mollie, “ I will remember.” 

And thus the wise one took her departure. 


It was twilight in Bloomsbury Place, and Mollie, 
crouched before the parlor window, resting her chin 
upon her hands, and looking out, pretty much as Aim^e 
had looked out on that winter evening months ago, when 
Mr. Gerald Chandos had first presented himself to her 
mind as an individual to be dreaded. 

Three days had passed since the wise one left London 
— three miserable, dragging days they had seemed 
to Mollie, despite their summer warmth and sunshine. 


DO YOU KNOW TEAT SHE IS DYING? 291 

Real anxiety and sorrow were new experiences in Vaga- 
bondia ; little trials they had felt, and often enough small 
unpleasantnesses, privations and disappointments; but 
death and grief were new. And they were just begin- 
ning to realize broadly the blow which had fallen upon 
them ; hard as it was to believe at first, they were begin- 
ning slowly to comprehend the sad meaning of the les- 
son they were learning now for the first time. What 
each had felt a fear of in secret was coming to pass at 
last, and there was no help against it. 

Phil went about his work looking as none of them had 
ever seen him look before. Mrs. Phil’s tears fell thick 
and fast. Not understanding the mystery, she could 
blame nobody but Grif, and Grif she could not forgive. 
To Mollie the house seemed like a grave. She could 
think of nothing but Dolly — Dolly, white, and worn, and 
altered, lying upon her couch, her eyes closed, her breath 
fluttering faintly. She wondered if she was afraid to die. 
She herself had a secret girlish terror of death and its 
strange solemness, and she so pitied Dolly that some- 
times she could not contain her grief, and was obliged to 
hide herself until her tears spent themselves. 

She had been crying during all this twilight hour she 
had knelt at the window. She was so lonely that it 
seemed impossible to do anything else. It would have 
been bad enough to bear the suspense even if Aimee had 
been with her, but without Aim^e it was dreadful. The 
tears slipped down her cheeks and rolled away, and she 
did not even attempt to dry them, her affectionate grief 
had mastered her completely. But she was roused at 
length. Some one crossed the street from the pavement 
opposite the house, and when this some one entered the 
gate and ascended the steps, she rose slowly, half-reluc- 


292 


DOLLY. 


tant, half-comforted, and with a faint thrill at her heart. 
It was Ralph Gowan, and she was not wise enough or 
self-controlled enough yet to see Ralph Gowan without 
feeling her pulses quicken. 

When she opened the door he did not greet her as 
usual, but spoke to her at once in a low, hurried tone. 

“ Mollie, where is Aim^e ?” he asked. 

Her tears began to flow again; she could not help 
giving way. 

“ You had better come in,” she said, half-turning away 
from him and speaking brokenly. “Aimde is not here. 
She is on her way to Switzerland now. She left London 

this morning. Dolly ” 

Dolly is worse !” he said, because she could not 
finish. 

She nodded, with a heart too full for words. 

He stepped inside, and, closing the door, laid his hand 
upon her shoulder. 

“Then, Mollie,” he said, “ I must come to you.” 

He did not wait a moment, but led her gently enough 
into the parlor, and, blinded as she was by her tears, 
she saw that instant that he had not come without a 
reason. 

“ Don’t cry,” he said. “ I want you to be brave and 
calm now — for Dolly’s sake. I want your help — for 
Dolly’s sake, remember.” 

She recollected Aimde’s words — “ Mr. Gowan has seen 
him” — and a sudden light flashed upon her. The tears 
seemed to dry of their own accord all at once, as she 
looked up. 

“ Yes,” she answered. 

He knew without hearing another word that he might 
trust her. 


DO YOU KNOW THAT SHE IS DYING? 


293 


. Can you guess whom I have just this moment 
seen ?” he said. 

Yes,” sprang from her lips, without a second’s hesi- 
tation. “ You have seen Grif.” 

“ I have seen Grif,” he answered. “ He is at the 
corner of the street now. If I had attempted to speak 
to him he would have managed to avoid me ; and because 
I knew that I came here, hoping to find Aim^e, but since 
Aimde is not here ” 

“ I can go,” she interrupted him, all a-tremble with 
eagerne.ss. “ He will listen to me ; he was fond of me, 
too, and I was fond of him. Oh ! let me go now !” 

That bright little scarlet shawl of Dolly’s lay upon the 
sofa, and she snatched it up with shaking hands and 
threw it over her head and shoulders. 

“ If I can speak to him once, he will listen,” she said ; 
‘‘and if he listens, Dolly will be saved. She won’t die 
if Grif comes back. She can’t die if Grif comes back. 
Oh, Dolly, my darling, you saved me, and I am going to 
try to save you.” 

She was out in the street in two minutes, standing on 
the -pavement, looking up and down, and then she ran 
across to the other side. She kept close to the houses, 
so that she might be in their shadow, and a little sob 
broke from her as she hurried along — a sob of joy, and 
fear, and excitement. At the end of the row of houses 
somebody was standing under the street lamp — a man. 
Was it Grif — or could Grif have gone even in this short 
time ? Fate could never have been so cruel to him, to 
her, to them all, as to let him come so near and then go 
away without hearing that Dolly was lying at death’s 
portals, and no one could save her but himself and the 
tender power of the sweet, old, much-tried love. Oh, 


294 


DOLLY. 


no, no ! It was Grif indeed, for as she neared the place 
where he stood she saw his face in the lamplight — a 
grief-worn, pallid face, changed and haggard and des- 
perate — a sight that made her cry out aloud. 

He had not seen her or even heard her. He stood 
there looking toward the house she had left, and seeing, 
as it seemed, nothing else. Only the evening darkness 
had hidden her from him. His eyes were fixed upon the 
dim light that burned in Dolly’s window. She had not 
meant to speak until she .stood close to him, but when 
she was within a few paces of him her excitem.ent mas- 
tered her. 

“ Grif,” she cried out ; “ Grif, is it you ?” 

And when he turned, with a great start, to look at her, 
she was upon him — her hands outstretched, the light 
upon her face, the tears streaming down her cheeks — 
sobbing aloud. 

“ Mollie,” he answered, “is it you?'' And she saw 
that he almost staggered. 

She could not speak at first. She clung to his arm so 
tightly that he could scarcely have broken away from 
her if he had tried. But he did not try — it seemed as 
though her touch made him weak — weaker than he had 
ever been before in his life. Beauty as she was, they had 
always thought her in some w^ay like Dolly, and, just 
now, with Dolly’s gay little scarlet shawl slipping away 
from her face, with the great grief in her imploring eyes, 
with that innocent appealing trick of the clinging hands, 
she might almost have been Dolly’s self 

Try as he might, he could not regain his self-control. 
He was sheerly powerless before her. 

“ Mollie,” he said, “ what has brought you here? Why 
have you come ?” 


DO YOU KNOW THAT SHE IS DYING? 295 

I have come/’ she answered, “ for Dolly’s sake !” 

The vague fear he had felt at first caught hold upon 
him with all the fulness of its strength. 

“ For Dolly’s sake !” he echoed. “ Nay, Dolly has done 
with me, and I with her.” And though he tried to speak 
bitterly, he faijed. 

She was too fond of Dolly, and too full of grief to spare 
him after that. Unstrung as she was her reproach burst 
from her without a softened touch. 

“ Dolly has done with earth. Dolly’s life is over,” she 
sobbed. “ Do you know that she is dying? Yes, dying 
— our own bright Dolly, and you — you have killed her!” 

She had not thought how cruel it would sound, and the 
next instant she was full of terror at the effect of her 
own words. He broke loose from her — -fell loose from 
her, one might better describe it, for it was his own weight 
rather than any effort which dragged him from her grasp. 
He staggered and caught hold of the iron railings to save 
himself, and there hung, staring at her with a face like a 
dead man. 

“ My God I” he said — not another word. 

, “You must not give way like that,” she cried out, in a 
new fright. “ Oh, how could I speak so I Aimde would 
have told you better. I did not mean to be so hard. 
You can save her if you will. She will not die, Grif, if 
you go to her. She only wants you. Grif — Grif — you 
look as if you could not understand what I am saying.” 
And she wrung her hands. 

And, indeed, it scarcely seemed as if he did under- 
stand, though at last he spoke. 

“Where is she?” he said. “Not here? You say I 
must ‘ go ’ to her.” 

“ No, she is not here. She is at Lake Geneva. Miss 


296 


DOLLY. 


MacDowlas took her there because she grew so weak, 
and she has grown weaker ever since, and three days ago 
they sent for Aim^e to come to her, because— because 
they think she is going to die.” 

“And you say that I have done this ?” 

“ I oughtn’t to have put it that way, it sounds so cruel, 
but — but she has never been like herself since the night 
you went away, and we have all known that it was her 
unhappiness that made her ill. She could not get over 
it, and though she tried to hide it, she was worn out. 
She loved you so.” 

He interrupted her. 

“ If she is dying for me,” he said, hoarsely, “she must 
have loved me, and if she has loved me through all this 
— God help us both !” 

“ How could you go away and leave her all alone after 
all those years ?” demanded Mollie. “ We cannot under- 
stand it. No one knows but Aim^e, and Dolly has told 
her that you were not to blame. Why did you go ?” 

^'You do not know?” he said. “You should know, 
Mollie, of all others. You were with her when she played 
that miserable coquette’s trick — that pitiful trick, so 
unlike herself — you were with her that night when she 
let Gowan keep her away from me, when I waited for her 
coming hour after hour. I saw you with them when he 
was bidding her good-night.” 

They had hidden their secret well all these months, 
but it was to be hidden no longer now. It flashed upon 
her like an electric shock. She remembered a hundred 
things — a hundred little mysteries she had met and been 
puzzled by, in Aim6e’s manner; she remembered all she 
had heard, and all she had wondered at, and her heart 
seemed turned to stone. The flush of weeping died out 


BO YOU KNOW THAT SHE IS DYING? 297 


of her face, her hands fell and hung down at her side, 
her tears were gone, nothing seemed left to her but blank 
horror. 

“ Was it because she did not come that night, that you 
left her to die ?” she asked, in a labored voice. “ Was it 
because you saw her with Ralph Gowan — was it because 
you found out that she had been with him, that you went 
away and let her break her heart ? Tell me !” 

He answered her, “ Yes.” 

“ Then,” she said, turning to face him, still cold, and 
almost rigid, ” it is I who have killed her, and not you.” 

“ You !” he exclaimed. 

She did not wait to choose her words, or try to soften 
the story of her own humiliation. 

“ If she dies,” she said, “ she has died for me.” 

And without further preface she told him all. How 
she had let Gerald Chandos flatter and gain power over 
her, until the climax of her folly had been the wild, wilful 
escapade of that miserable fong-past day. How Ralph 
Gowan had discovered her romantic secret, and revealed 
it to Dolly. How they had followed and rescued her; 
even how Dolly had awakened her from her dangerous 
dream with that light touch, and had drawn her away 
from the brink of an abyss, with her loving, girlish hands, 
and she ended with an outburst of actual anguish. 

“ Why didn’t she tell you ?” she said. “ For my sake 
she did not want the rest to know; but why did not she 
tell you ? I cannot understand.” 

“She tried to tell me,” he said, in an agony of self- 
reproach, as he began to see what he had done. “ She 
tried to tell me, and I would not hear her.” 

All his bygone sufferings — and. Heaven knows, he had 
suffered bitterly and heavily enough — sank into insignifi- 


298 


DOLLY. 


cance before the misery of this hour. To know how true 
and pure of heart she had been ; to know how faithful, 
unselfish, sweet; to remember how she had met him 
with a tender, little cry of joy, with outstretched, inno- 
cent hands, that he had thrust aside ; to remember the 
old golden days in which she had so clung to him, and 
brightened his life ; to think how he had left her lying 
upon the sofa that night, her white face drooping pite- 
ously against the cushions ; to have all come back to 
him and know that he only was to blame ; to know it all 
too late. Nay, a whole life of future bliss could never 
quite efface the memory of such a passion of remorse 
and pain. 

Oh, my God !” he prayed, “ have mercy upon me !” 
And then he turned upon Mollie. “ Tell me where to go 
to: tell me, and let me go. I must go to her now with- 
out a moment’s waiting. My poor, faithful, little girl 
— my pretty Dolly! Dying — dying! No, I don’t believe 
it — I won’t. She cannot die yet. Fate has been cruel 
enough to us, but it cannot be so cruel as that. Love 
will her live.” 

He dashed down Mollie’s directions in desperate, fever- 
ish haste upon a leaf of his memorandum-book, and then 
he bade her good-by. ‘ 

“ God bless you, dear !” he said. “ Perhaps you have 
saved us both. I am going to her now. Pray for me.” 

“ I ought rather to pray for myself,” she said ; “ but 
for me you would never have been separated. I have 
done it all.” 

And a few minutes after he had gone, Ralph Gowan, 
who had awaited her return, before the window, turned 
to see her enter the room like a spirit and fling herself 
down before him, looking white and shaken and pale. 


DO YOU KNOW THAT SHE IS DYING? 299 

“I have found it all out now,” she cried. “I have 
found it all out. I have done all this, Mr. Gowan; it is 
through me her heart is broken, and if she dies, I shall 
have caused her death, as surely as if I had killed her 
with my own hand. Oh, save me from thinking she will 
die — help me to think she will live — help me !” 

There was no one else to help her, and the blind terror 
of the thought was so great that she must have help, or 
die. To have so injured Dolly, whom she so loved — to 
have, by her own deed, brought that dread shadow of 
Death upon Dolly, who had saved her! Her heart 
seemed crushed. If Aimde had been there ; but Aimee 
Was not, so she stretched out her hands to the man she 
had so innocently loved. And, as she so knelt before 
him — so fair, in the childlike abandon of her grief, so 
guileless and trusting in her sudden, sweet appeal, so 
helpless against the world, even against herself, his man’s 
heart was touched and stirred as it had never been before 
— as even Dolly herself had not stirred it. 

“ My poor child !” he said, taking her hands and draw- 
ing her nearer to himself. My poor, pretty Mollie, 
come to me.” 

And, why not, my reader? If one rose is not for us, 
the sun shines on many another as sweet and quite as 
fair ; and what is more, it is more than probable that if 
we had seen the last rose first, we should have loved the 
first rose last. It is only when, like Dolly and Grif, we 
have watched our rose from its first peep of the leaf, and 
have grown with its growth, that there can be no other 
rose but one. 

roi est niort — Vive le roiT 


300 


DOLLY, 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

GRIF ! 

T here seemed almost to be a hush upon the guests 
at the pretty little inn. Most of them, the fact 
was, were not sojourners of a day, who came and went, 
as they did at the larger and busier hotels — they were 
comfortable people who enjoyed themselves in their own 
quiet way and so had settled down for the time being. 
Accordingly they had leisure to become interested in 
each other; and certainly there were few of them who 
did not feel a friendly interest in the pretty, pale English 
girl, who, report said, was fading silently out of life in . 
her bright room up-stairs. When Aimde arrived, the 
most sympathetic shook their heads dubiously. 

“The sister is here,” they said; “a thoughtful little 
English, fair creature with a child’s face and a woman’s 
air. They sent for her. One can easily guess what that 
means. 

Any one but Aim^e would have been crushed at the 
outset by the shock of the change which was to be 
seen in the poor little worn figure, now rarely moved 
from its invalid’s couch. But Aim^e bore the blow with 
outward quiet at least. If she shed tears Dolly did not 
see them, and if she mourned Dolly was not disturbed 
by her sorrow. 

“ I have come to help Miss MacDowlas to take care 


GRIF! 


301 . 


of you, Dolly,” she said, when she gave her her greet- 
ing kiss, and Dolly smiled and kissed her in return. 

But it was a terribly hard matter to fight through at 
first. Of course as the girl had become weaker she had 
lost power over herself. She was restless and listless by 
turns. Sometimes she started at every sound, and again 
she lay with closed eyes for hours, dozing the day away. . 
The mere sight of her in this latter state threw poor 
Phemie into an agony of terror and distress. 

“ It is so like Death,” she would say to Aimde. “ It 
seems as if we could never rouse her again.” 

And then again she would rally a little, and at such 
times she would insist upon being propped up and 
allowed to talk, and her eyes would grow large and 
bright, and a spot of hectic color would burn on her 
cheeks. She did not even mention her trouble during 
the first two days of Aimde’s v^sit, but on the third after- 
noon she surprised her by broaching the subject sud- 
denly. She had been dozing, and on awakening she 
began to talk. 

“Aimde,” she said, where is Miss MacDowlas?” 

“ In her room. I persuaded her to go and lie down.” 

“T am very glad,” quietly. “ I want to do something 
particular. I want Grif’s letters, Aimde.” 

Where are they ?” Aimde asked. 

“ In a box in my trunk. I should like to have them 
now.” 

Aim^e brought them to her without comment. The 
box had not been large enough to hold them all and 
there was an extra packet tied with that dear old stereo- 
typed blue ribbon. 

“ What a many there are !” said Dolly, when she came 
to the couch with them. “You will have to sit down by 


302 


DOLLY, 


me and hold some of them. One can write a great many 
letters in seven years.” 

The wise one sat down, obediently holding the box 
upon her knee. There were so many letters in it that it 
was quite heavy. 

I am going to look them over and tie them in pack- 
ages, according to their dates,” said Dolly. “ He will 
like to have them when he comes back.” 

It would not have been natural for her to preserve her 
calmness all through the performance of her task. Her 
first glance at the first letter brought the tears and she 
cried quietly, as she passed from one to the other. They 
were such tender, impetuous letters. The very headings 
— “ My Darling,” “ My pretty Darling,” “ My own sweet- 
est Life ” — impassioned, youthful-sounding and Grif-like, 
cut her to the heart. Ah ! how terrible it would be for 
him to see them again, a^ he would see them ! She was 
pitying him far more than she was pitying herself. 

It was a work not soon over, but she finished it at 
length. The packets were assorted and tied with new 
ribbon and she lay down for a few minutes to rest. 

“You will give them to him, Aimde?” she said. “I 
think he will come some day, but, if he does not, you 
must keep them yourself. I should not like people to 
read them — afterwards. Love-letters won’t stand being 
read by strangers. I have often laughed and told him 
ours wouldn’t. I am going to write a last one, however, 
this afternoon. You are to give it him, with the ‘dead’ 
letter — but they are all dead letters, are they not ?” 

“ Dolly,” said Aimee, with a desperate effort, “ you 
speak as if you were sure you were — going.” 

There was a silence and then a soft, low, tremulous 
laugh — the merest echo of a laugh. Despite her long 


GRIF! 


303 


suffering Dolly was Dolly yet. She would not let them 
mourn over her. 

“Going,” she said, “well — I think I am. Yes ” 

half reflectively, “I think I must be. It cannot mean 
anything else — this feeling, can it ? It was a long time 
before I quite believed it myself, Aim^e, but now I should 
be obliged to believe it if I did not wish to.” 

“ And do you wish to, now ?” 

That little silence again, and then 

“ I should like to see Grif — I want Grif — that is all.” 

She managed to write her last love-letter after this, and 
to direct it and tie it with the letter which had returned 
to her — the ‘ dead ’ letter. But the effort seemed to tire 
her very much, and when all was done and her restless 
excitement had died out, she looked less like herself than 
ever. ’ She could talk no more and was so weak and 
prostrate that Aimde was alarmed into summoning Miss 
MacDowlas. 

But Miss MacDowlas could only shake her head. “We 
cannot do anything to rouse her,” she said. “ It is often 
so. If the end comes it will come in this way. She 
feels no pain.” 

That night Aimee wrote to those at home. They must 
come at once if they wanted to see Dolly. She watched 
all night by the bedside herself, she could not have slept 
if she had gone to her own room, and so she remained 
with Dolly, watching her doze and waken, starting from 
nervous sleeps and sinking into them again. 

“ There will not be many nights through which I can 
watch,” she said to herself “Even this might be the 
last.” And then she turned to the window, and cried 
silently, thinking of Grif, and wondering what she should 
say to him, if they ever met again. How could she say 


304 


DOLLY, 


to him, “ Dolly is dead ! Dolly died because you left 
her !” 

Another weary day and night, and then the old change 
came again. The feverish strength seemed to come once 
more. Dolly would be propped up, and talk. Before 
very long Aimde began to fancy that she had something 
she wished to say to Miss MacDowlas. She followed 
her movements with eager, unsatisfied eyes, and did not 
seem at ease until she sat down near her. Then when 
she had secured her attention the secret revealpd itself. 
She had something to say about Grif 

Gradually, during the long, weary weeks of her illness 
she had learned to place much confidence in Miss Mac- 
Dowlas. Her affectionate nature had clung to her. In 
telling anecdotes of life in Vagabondia, she had talked of 
Grif — Vagabondia would not have been Vagabondia with- 
out Grif — and there was always a thrill of faithful love in 
her simplest mention of him. Truly Miss MacDowlas 
beheld her reprobate nephew in a new light, surrounded 
by a halo of innocent romance and unselfish tenderness. 
This poor little soul, who was breaking her heart for his 
sake, showed him sinned against but never sinning, un- 
fortunate but never to blame, showed him honest, sweet 
of nature, true and faultless. Where were his faults in 
the eyes of his first and last love ? The simple, whim- 
sical stories of their loves and lovers’ quarrels, of their 
small economies and perfect faith in the future — a faith 
so sadly wrecked, as it seemed, by cruel Fate — brought 
tears into Miss MacDowlas’s eyes. Kloquent, affection- 
ate Dolly won her over before she knew what she was 
thinking about. He could not have been such a repror 
bate after all — this Griffith Donne, who had so often 
roused her indignation. Perhaps he could not help being 


GRIF! 


305 


literary and wearing a shabby coat and a questionable 
hat. And Dolly had in the end began to see how her 
long-fixed opinion had softened and changed. So she 
had courage to plead for Grif this afternoon. She wanted 
to be sure that if he should ever come back, there would 
be a hand outstretched to help him. 

“ He only wanted help,” she said, “ and no one has 
ever helped him, though he tried so hard and worked so. 
Aimee knows how hard he worked, don’t you, Aimee ?” 

“Yes,” answered Aimee, turning her working face 
away. 

“ I should like you to promise,” said Dolly, wistfully, 
to Miss MacDowlas. “ It would make me so much hap- 
pier. You have been so kind to me — I am sure you will 
be kind to him — poor Grif — poor fellow !” 

Miss MacDowlas bent over her, touched to the heart. 

“ My dear,” she said, “ he shall never want help again. 
He must have been worthy of so much love, or he would 
never have won it. I owe him some recompense, too. If 
I had not been so stupidly blind I might have saved you 
both all this pain. I have grown very fond of you, 
Dolly,” she ended, and then being quite overcome she 
kissed the pretty hair suddenly, gave the thin hand an 
almost motherly squeeze, and made the best of her way 
out of the room. 

“ Aimee,” said Dolly, “ do you remember how often I 
made fun of her, when we were all so happy together ? 
We made a good many mistakes, even in Vagabondia, 
didn’t we ?” And then she closed her eyes and lay 
silent, with wet lashes resting on her cheek. 

In speaking of this afternoon, long afterwards, Aim^e 
said it seemed the longest and weariest she had ever 
known. It was extremely hot, and the very air seemed 
20 


306 


DOLLY 


laden with heavy languor. The sun beat down upon the 
outer world whitely, and scarcely a leaf stirred. Miss 
MacDowlas did not return, and Dolly, though she was 
not asleep, lay quite still and did not open her eyes again. 
So Aimde sat and watched at her side, wondering how 
»the day would end, wondering if Phil and ’Toinette and 
Mollie would arrive before it was too late, wondering 
what that strange last hour would be like and how Dolly 
would bear it when it came, and how they themselves 
would bear to think of it when it was over. 

She was not quite sure how long she sat watching so, 
but she fancied that it must have been two or three hours, 
or even more. She got up at last and drew down the 
green blinds as noiselessly as possible and then went back 
to her place and rested her head upon the pillow near 
Dolly’s, feeling drowsy and tired — she had slept so little 
during the past few nights. 

Dolly moved restlessly, stretching out her hand to 
Aim^e’s and opening her eyes all at once — ah ! what 
large, hollow, shadowy eyes they were ! 

“ I am very tired,” she murmured, “ so tired and so 

weak, Aimde ” dreamily. ‘‘ I suppose this is what 

you would call dying of a broken heart. It seems so 
queer that I should die of a broken heart.” 

“ Oh, Dolly — Dolly !” Aim^e whispered, “ our own 
dearest dear, we never thought such pain could come to 
you.” 

But even the next moment Dolly seemed to have lost 
herself, her eyes closed again and she did not speak. So 
Aim^e lay holding her hand, until the in-door silence, 
the shadow of the room, and the sound of the droning 
bees outside lulled her into a sort of doze and her own 
eyelids fell wearily. 


GRIF! 


307 


A minute, was it, five or ten, or more than that ? She 
could not. say. She only remembered her own last 
words, the warmth, the shadow, the droning of the bees 
and the gradual losing consciousness, and then she was 
wide awake again — awakened by a strange, wild cry, 
which, thrilling and echoing through the room, made 
her start up with a beating heart and look towards the 
door. 

“ Grif !” 

That was all — only this single rapturous cry, and 
Dolly, who had before seemed not to have the strength 
of a child, was sitting up, a white, tremulous figure, with 
outstretched arms and fluttering breath, and Grif was 
standing upon the threshold. 

Evei# when she had blamed him most, Aimde had 
pitied him also, but she had never pitied him as she did 
when he strode to the couch and took the weak, worn, 
tremulous little figure in his arms. He could not speak 
— neither spoke. Dolly lay upon his breast crying like 
a little child. But for him — his grief was terrible, and 
when the loving hand was laid upon his cheek and 
Dolly found her first words, they only seemed to make 
it worse. ♦ 

“ Don’t cry,” she said. “ Don’t cry, dear. Kiss me !” 
He kissed her lips, her hands, her hair. He could not 
bear it. She was so like, yet so fearfully unlike the win- 
some, tender creature he had loved so long. 

“Oh my God!” he cried, in his old mad way, “you 
are dying, and if you die it will be I who have mur- 
dered you!” 

She moved a little nearer so that her pretty face rested 
against his shoulder and she could lift her streaming eyes 
to his, her old smile shining through her tears. 


308 


DOLLY. 


“ Dear old fellow,” she said, ^‘darling old fellow, whom 
I love with all my soul ! I shall live just to prove that 
you have done nothing of the kind !” 

It was only Grif she wanted — only Grif, and Grif had 


come. 


BOSE COLOR. 


309 


CHAPTER XIX. 

ROSE COLOR. 

O F course she recovered. What else could she do ? 

If a man seems dying for want of bread and you 
give him bread enough and to spare, he will regain 
strength and life, will he not? And so with Dolly. 
Having found Grif, she had nothing to die for and so 
much to live for, that she lived. It seemed, too, that 
even if she had been inclined to die, Grif would have 
held her fast to earth. It was worse than useless to 
attempt to delude him into leaving her side, even for an 
hour; he hung over the invalid’s couch in such an 
anguish of half-despairing anxiety that the hearts of 
the unceremoniously deposed nurses were quite touched. 
He watched every change in Dolly’s face, every bright- 
ening or fading tint in her cheek, every glance of her 
eyes, he followed her every movement. If she was tired 
of her posture, he could raise her or lay her down and 
settle her cushions as no one else could ; if she was 
strong enough to listen he could talk to her ; if she was 
too weak he could be silent. 

But naturally there was much to talk about. Not that 
the period of his absence had been a very eventful one. 
It was as Ralph Gowan had fancied — he had been living 
quietly enough in a secluded London street during the 
whole of the time, but Dolly found the history of his 


310 


DOLLY. 


self-banishment both interesting and soul-moving. The 
story of his miseries brought the tears into her eyes, 
and his picture of what he had suffered on that unhappy 
night, when he had rushed out of the house and left her 
insensible upon the sofa, made her cling to his hand con- 
vulsively and sob outright. 

I can scarcely believe you are here — quite safe,” she 
would say; “you might have killed yourself.” 

And indeed he had been in no small danger of so 
doing. 

Among all this, however, there was one bit of bright- 
ness — a wonderful piece of news he told her that very 
day after his return. Fortune had, with her usual 
caprice, condescended to smile upon him at last. In- 
credible as it appeared, he had “ got into something,” 
and this “ something ” was actually remunerative — 
reasonably remunerative, if not extravagantly so. Four 
hundred a year would pay the rent of the figurative 
house in Putney or elsewhere, and buy the green sofa 
and appurtenances, at least. Dolly could scarcely be- 
lieve it, and, indeed, he scarcely believed it himself. 

” It seemed as if, when I had lost all else, this came to 
add to the bitterness of the loss,” he said. “I am afraid 
I was far from being as grateful, at first, as I ought to 
have been. I could only remember how happy such luck 
would have made us both if it had only come a year or 
so earlier. And the very day I got the place I passed 
the upholsterer’s where the parlor furniture was — green 
sofa and all. And I went home with the firm intention 
of blowing my brains out. The only thing that saved 
me that day was the fact that my landlady met me at the 
door with a miserable story about her troubles and her 
taxes, and by the time I had listened for half an hour. 


ROSE COLOR. 


311 


and heard something she wanted done, I had cooled 
down a little, though I was wretched enough/’ 

“The ‘something’ was paying the taxes, wasn’t it?” 
questioned Dolly. 

“ Something of that kind,” admitted Griffith. 

“ Ah,” said Dolly, wisely, “ I thought so.” 

Very naturally Griffith felt some slight embarrassment 
on encountering Miss MacDowlas, having a rather un- 
pleasant recollection of various incidents of the past. 
But Miss Berenice faced the matter in a different manner 
and with her usual decision of character. She had 
made up her mind to receive Griffith Donne as a re- 
spectable fact, and then, through Dolly’s eloquence, she 
had learned to regard him with even a sort of affection 
— a vague enough affection, of course, at the outset, but 
one which would ripen with time. Thus she rather sur- 
prised him by confronting him upon an entirely new 
ground. She was cordial and amiable, and on the first 
opportunity she explained her change of feeling with 
great openness. 

“ I have heard so much of you from Dolly,” she said, 
“ that I am convinced I have known nothing of you 
before. I hope we shall be better friends. I am very 
fond of Dolly. I wish I had known her three or four 
years ago.” 

And there was such a softened tenderness in her thin, 
unpromising face, that from thenceforward Griffith’s 
doubts were removed and his opinion altered, as hers had 
done. The woman who had loved, and pitied Dolly when 
she so sorely needed pity and love, must be worthy of 
gratitude and affection. 

Phil and ’Toinette and Mollie arriving, in the deepest 
affliction, to receive Dolly’s last farewell, were .rather 


312 


DOLLY. 


startled by the turn affairs had taken. Changed as she 
was, the face she turned to greet them was not the face 
of a dying girl. She was deplorably pale and shrunken 
^ and thin, but the light of life was in her eyes and a new 
ring was in her voice. She had vitality enough to recog- 
nise fresh charms in Tod, and spirit enough to make a 
few jokes. 

She won’t die,” commented Phil to his wife when they 
retired to their room. 

“ No,” said Mrs. Phil, discreetly, “ it is not likely, now 
Grif has come back. But it won’t do to waste the jour- 
ney, Phil, so we may as well stay awhile. We have not 
been anywhere out of London this summer.” 

Accordingly, with their usual genius for utilizing all 
things, they prolonged their visit and made it into a kind 
of family festival, and since their anxiety on Dolly’s 
behalf ’was at an end, they managed to enjoy it heartily. 
They walked here and rode there ahd explored unheard- 
of points and places ; they kept the quiet people in the 
quiet hotel in a constant state of pleasant ferment with 
their good spirits and unceremonious friendliness. Mollie 
and Aimde and Mrs. Phil excited such general admira- 
tion that when they made their appearance at the table 
dliUe there was a visible stir and brightening, and ‘Dolly 
was so constantly inquired after, that there were serious 
thoughts entertained of issuing hourly bulletins. The 
reaction of high spirits after their fears was something 
exhilarating even to beholders. 

And while they enjoyed themselves and explored and 
instituted a high carnival of innocent rejoicing, Dolly 
directed all her energies to the task of getting well and ' 
filling Grif’s soul with hope and bliss. As soon as she 
had fully recovered they were to be married — not a day. 


BOSE COLOR. 


313 


not an hour longer would Grif consent to wait. His only 
trouble was that she would not be strong enough to super- 
intend the purchase of the green sofa and appurtenances. 
Aimde had, however, proved his rock of refuge as usual. 
They were to return to London together and make the 
necessary preparations, and then the wedding was to take 
place in Geneva, and the bride would be carried home in 
triumph. 

“ We have been so long in travelling toward the little 
house at Putney that it will be the nicest bridal tour we 
could have,” said Dolly. 

Then, of course, came some pleasant excitement in 
connection with the trousseau, in which everybody was 
involved. The modest hotel had never before been in 
such a state of mind through secret preparations, as it 
was when Dolly was well enough to sit up and walk 
about and choose patterns. Her instinct of interest in 
worldly vanities sustained that young person marvel- 
lously. When Grif and Aimde had returned to London 
she found herself well enough to give lengthy audiences 
to Mrs. Phil, who, wdth Miss MacDowlas, had taken the 
business of purchasing in hand, and to discuss fabrics 
and fashions by the hour. The truth was, that she 
remembered Grif’s enthusiasm on the subject of her 
toilets, and she W'as wholly ruled by a secret and laudable 
ambition to render herself as utterly irresistible as pos- 
sible. She exercised to its utmost her inventive genius, 
and actually lay awake at night to devise simple but 
coquettish feminine snares of attire to delight and bewil- 
der him in the future. 

She might w^ell progress rapidly toward health and 
strength. By the time the house was ready for her recep- 


314 


DOLLY. 


tion she was well enough to drive out and explore with 
the rest, though she looked curiously frail and unsub- 
stantial by contrast with Mollie’s bloom and handsome 
Mrs. Phil’s grand curves. She was gaining flesh and 
color every day, but the slender throat and wrists and 
transparent hands were a bitter reproach to Grif even 
then, and it would be many v/eeks before she could again 
indulge in that old harmless vanity in her dimples and 
smooth roundness of form. 

Mollie mourned over her long, in secret, and, indeed, 
was so heartwrung by the sight of the change she found 
in her, that the very day of her arrival had not drawn to 
its close before she burst upon her with a remorseful 
appeal for forgivness. 

“ But even if you forgive me I shall not forgive my- 
self,” she said. “ I shall never forget that dreadful night 
when I found out that it was all my fault, and that you 
had borne everything without telling me. If — if it had 
not been for — for Mr. Gowan, Dolly, I think I should 
have died.” 

“ If it had not been for who ?” asked Dolly. 

“ Mr. Gowan,” answered Miss Mollie, dropping her 
eyes, her very throat dyed with guilty blushes. 

“Ah!” said Dolly. “And what did Mr. Gowan do, 
Mollie?” 

“ He was very kind — and sympathizing,” replied Mollie. 

“ He always is sympathizing,” looking at her with 
affectionate shrewdness. “ He is very nice, isn’t he, 
Mollie?” 

“Yes,” said Mollie. “Very nice,' indeed.” 

“And I dare say you were so frightened and wretched 
that you cried ?” 


ROSE COLOR. 


315 


Yes,” confessed the abashed catechised. 

I thought so.” And then conjuring up in her mind’s 
eye a picture of Mollie, heartbroken, appealing and in 
tears, beauteous, piteous and grief-abandoned, she added, 
with tender impulsiveness: “I don’t wonder that he 
sympathized with you, Mollie.” 

It revealed itself shortly afterward that his sympathy 
had not confined itself to the night Mollie called “ dread- 
ful.” Since that night he had been a frequent visitor at 
Bloomsbury Place — as frequent a visitor as he had been 
in the days when Dolly had been wont so to entertain 
him. 


A week after the return of Aim^e and Grif from Lon- 
don, there fell again upon the modest hotel a hush, but it 
was not the hush of sympathetic silence which had fallen 
upon it before — it was merely a sort of reaction after a 
slight excitement. The pretty English girl had, to every 
one’s wonder, suddenly returned to earth and — marvel 
of marvels ! — had been married. The wisest were bewil- 
dered, but such was the fact, nevertheless ; nobody could 
exactly comprehend, but who could deny it ? It was a 
mystery, indeed, until one day, sometime after, a usually 
phlegmatic matron was struck with an idea, and accord- 
ingly propounded to her friends a somewhat vaguely- 
expressed problem. 

After the appearance of the lover one heard no more 
that she was dying?” 

“Just so.” 

“ Perhaps the lover had something to do with the 
matter ?” 

“Ah!” 


316 


DOLLY. 


“ Perhaps she was dying for him, and his coming cured 
her?” 

“ Exactly. That must have been the case.” 

And thenceforth the matter was deemed settled. How- 
ever, the gay, light-hearted party of English had taken 
their departure — the friendly young artist who sketched 
and smoked and enjoyed himself; his handsome young 
wife, who sketched and played with her handsome child, 
and enjoyed hers^i\ the beautiful younger sister, who 
blushed and was charmingly bashful, but enjoyed her^^\i\ 
the fair little saint with the grave, youthful face, who 
took care of them all, and yet enjoyed — the lover, 

the elder lady, the guest who came to be groomsman, the 
bride — they were all gone at last, and their absence was 
the cause of the hush of which I speak. 

There had been a wedding — a joyous, light-hearted 
wedding, in which the bride had looked pretty and flower- 
like and half-ethereal — a fragile little creature enough in 
her white dress and under her white veil, but a delight 
fully happy little creature, notwithstanding — in which the 
bridegroom had been plainly filled with chivalric tender- 
ness and bliss — in which the two sisters had been charm- 
ing beyond measure, and the awkward, affectionate girl 
friend from the seminary had blushed herself into a high 
fever. There could not have been a more prettily ortho- 
dox wedding, said the beholders. . Somehow its glow of 
young romance touched people, it was so evident that 
the young couple were fond of each other, and happy 
and hopeful. There were those who, seeing it solemnized 
in the small church, shed a few tears, they knew not 
why, when Grif lifted Dolly’s veil and kissed her without 
a word. 


BOSE COLOR. 317 

“ It is all rose color to them,” said one of these soft- 
hearted ones apologetically to her neighbor. 

Rose color ! I should think it was. 

But if it was all rose color then, what was it that first 
evening they spent at home — in their own home, in the 
exquisite little house which was so bright and pretty that 
it seemed more like a dream than a reality? What color 
did life look when Grif led Dolly across the threshold, 
half trembling himself for very joy? What color did it 
look when he shut the door of the entrancing little 
parlor, and turning round, went to her and folded her in 
his arms close to his beating heart? 

Rose color ! It was golden and more than golden ! 
And yet, for the first minute, Dolly could not speak, and 
the next she laid her cheek in her favorite place, on the 
lapel of Grif’s coat, and burst into a great gush of soft, 
warm tears — tears without a touch of any other element, 
however, than love and happiness. 

^'Home, Grif!” she said. 

He was quite pale and he had almost lost his voice, 
too, but he managed to answer her, unsteadily, 

“ Yes, Dolly,” he said ; “ home I” And he stroked 
the bright hair upon his breast, with a world of meaning 
in his touch. 

“Do you think,” she said next, “that I am good 
enough and wise enough to take care of it, and to take 
care of you, Grif?” 

“ Do you think,” he said, “ that I am good enough 
and wise enough to take care of you?'' 

She lifted up her face and kissed him. 

“ We love each other,” she whispered, “ we trust each 
other, and so we can help each other, and God will help 
us both. Ah, Grif, how bright and sweet life is [" 


318 


DOLLY, 


And she scarcely knew, tender little soul, that instead 
of “ life” she should have said “ love.” 


There we will leave them both, merely hinting at the 
festivities that followed — merely hinting at the rejoicings 
at Bloomsbury Place, the gatherings at Brabazon Lodge 
and the grand family reception at the house of the bride 
— a reception at which Dolly shone forth with renewed 
splendor, presiding over a gorgeous silver tea-service, 
which was one of Miss MacDowlas’s many gifts, dis- 
pensing tea and coffee with the deportment of a house- 
keeper of many years* standing, and utterly distracting 
Grif with her matronly airs and graces. 

Vagabondia was itself again in these days, but it was 
turning its brighter side outward. Phil was winning suc- 
cess, too, his position in the world of art was becoming 
secured, and Bloomsbury Place was to be touched up and 
refurnished gradually. Aimde had promised to make 
her home with Dolly until such time as her sweet little 
saint’s face won her a home of her own. Miss Mac- 
Dowlas had been adopted into the family circle, and was 
conscious of being happier than she had ever felt since 
her long-past youth slipped from her grasp. Tod’s teeth 
were “ through,” as Mrs. Phil phrased it, and convulsions 
had not supervened, to the ecstacy of his anxious ad- 
mirers. And Mollie — well, Mollie waltzed with Ralph 
Gowan again on the night of Dolly’s reception, and 
when the dance was at an end, she went and seated her- 
self near her hostess upon the green sofa — it was a green 
sofa, though a far more luxurious one than Dolly and 
Grif had ever dared to set their hearts upon in the olden 
days. 


ROSE COLOR. 


819 


“ Dolly,” she said, blushing for the last time in this 
history of mine, and looking down at her bouquet of 
waxen-white camelias and green leaves. “ Dolly, I sup- 
pose Aim^e has told you that I am engaged to — to ” 

“To Mr. Gowan,” suggested Dolly. 

“ Yes,” answered Mollie, “ to Mr. Gowan.” 


THE END. 




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